So my arm fell off today. Yeah, I know, gross. But it’s not what you think. It does that a lot. Thankfully I was wearing long sleeves (it was picture day at school and Dad insisted I wear a dorky button down and tie because he still thinks this is the 1950′s even though I have to pass through a metal detector to get into school, but at least the cuffs were tight enough to hold up the weight of my arm) so it just kinda dangled there for the rest of the day, which is good because I don’t need another leper rumor going around school again. Seriously, that happened. Are there even lepers around anymore? Wasn’t that just in Jesus times or something? Okay, I just checked wikipedia, and leprosy is still around, but it’s totally treatable, so you don’t need to worry about it. Not that I’d need to worry about it anyway, because for the millionth time I’m not a leper.
Wait, you’re probably like “What the hell is he talking about?” I get that a lot.
Alright, from the beginning. My name’s Frank. My dad made me in his basement out of old parts like Frankenstein’s monster. I know, and he named me Frank. Isn’t that just shoot me in the face hysterical? Nevermind that whole misconception that the monster’s name in the book is Frankenstein (hello, it’s the doctor’s!) but if you build some freak kid in your basement and you don’t want anyone to know about it, wouldn’t you try and avoid comparisons to the book? Why not John? Carl? Hell, I’d even take Todd. Whatever. Parents aren’t the brightest people around, regardless of what they like to think.
Anyway, even though I’m a freak who was made in his dad’s basement, I’m pretty much like any other teenager, which is just about as freakish. No, my skin isn’t green, although it is kinda olivey (that should totally be a word) so most people think I’m just mediterranean (thank you, spellcheck!) or something which just means I tan pretty well and make my irish friends jealous. Okay, friend, but if he didn’t put about a million layers of sunscreen on every time he’s out in the sun I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be so vampire looking. Oh, and my head isn’t flat, except when I want my hair to be spiky, and I don’t have any bolts or anything stupid like that coming out of my neck. What are those bolts even for anyway? If I had those they better damn come with some radio reception.
Oh right, dismembered arm. Luckily it was my left, so I was still able to take notes in class for the rest of my day and dad patched it back up when I got home. And just a note to all you other kids out there who were made in your parents basement, and not in the gross way: never blame your arm falling off on your parents’ shoddy craftsmanship, because they won’t think it’s as funny as you do, and then they’ll punish you by making you wait till the next day to put your arm back on. That only happened one time though, but unfortunately it was my right arm which was annoying, but it was the weekend so I didn’t have to worry about going to school. It did teach me the joys of jerking off with my left hand though. Seriously, it’s like a totally different person. Hell, as soon as he attaches my arm again, there’s a Frank-shaped cloud of smoke in his lab as I run to my room to take advantage of the few minutes it takes for all my nerve endings to realign or whatever the fuck they do.
Oh what? You think the Frankenstein’s monster kid can’t jerk off? I’ll have you know that everything down there works just fine, thank you very much, and how many times do I need to tell you that I’m a normal teenager? If you’re gonna throw that whole made-in-my-dad’s-basement thing in my face, I’d like to remind you that your parents probably made you by having sex, so I’d say we’re about even.
