Nobody warned me that with the advent of children I would turn into a hostage of toys, each of which has its own unique power of influence on my nervous system. Some of them are too loud, others are too sticky, others are overwhelming with splendor, and the fourth are created to fall under your feet in the most impenetrable hours of the night.
I once shared my pain with a friend who also has small children. And suddenly she supported me. The most annoying toys for adults are those toys that children usually enjoy the most. I arranged a wide survey among my acquaintances, and as a result, this rating was born. Of course, he is joking, but there is some truth in every joke.
The producers, it seems, have conspired to insert songs into the plastic doll body that instantly penetrate the mind and play there for weeks with painful importunity. And this is the best case. Sometimes their voices are heard in the night, if you accidentally click on the little body of the doll, and give odds to any horror movie. A couple of times I almost got a stroke when, accidentally clicking on a toy, I heard a heartbreaking cry: "Hello, I want to be friends with you!" Then the doll began to laugh ominously with a Chinese accent. And I went to drink a sedative.
My kids love this hellish invention for destroying furniture. There is a Rospechat kiosk not far from our house, where a nice woman sells slimes. She always watches with curiosity as Prokhor sticks to the glass, begging to buy this purple one for him! Sometimes he pierces my armor, and I buy him a slime. What for? Why am I doing this! After all, I know that this lovely woman from Rospechat is probably supplied with this product from a goblin farm. There, two ogres are boiling slimes in a huge vat, and one says to the other: "Add more purple dye so that it probably won't wash off." Once home, the slime behaves decently at first. He compassionately slaps against the walls and leaves no traces. But this is at first. About a day later, I clean off the traces of Lizun's activity from the carpet and from the sofas, and every time I swear that I will never again!
This toy is designed for children to experience grief. Unless you are an entomologist. We were given one for our birthday so that the children would watch the life of the ants. But the unfortunate animals were not warned that they would live in a city apartment. And they didn't sign up for it. Instead of a fascinating biological experiment, the ant farm has become a daily reminder of the futility of everything. With each passing day, the unfortunate poor fellows became less and less, until there was one and only one, slowly wandering among the dubious landscape in existential loneliness.
I began to suspect that something was wrong with the plasticine, even before the birth of my own children. I gave a box of plasticine to my little nephew. “Well, thanks, I made you feel good,” my sister chuckled sarcastically. I was confused. How can you not love plasticine? After all, it develops the child's fine motor skills and imagination! Today I am that monster who cannot bear even this word. I suppose that there are ideal children in the world who, after playing, always carefully put plasticine in a box and go to wash their hands. But these children are definitely not mine. Marianne, when she was little (she is now 8 years old), discovered the wonderful properties of plasticine to fill any cavity. So in our house all the keyholes and the keyboard of a working laptop were clogged with this miracle substance. Now imagine what would happen if you bought plasticine that solidifies. Shivering!