The Wall Is Not A Dartboard:
I grew up in a troubled neighbourhood. It must have rubbed off on me. In the days before the diversions of today, your chief toy was your imagination, which was coloured by its surroundings.
I started young by painting my crib with a bottle of nail polish, carelessly left within my reach. The mess was substantial. Though I couldn't have known any better, my mother was not amused.
Next and most shamefully, in the lead up to Christmas when I was 7 years old, I was obsessed with one gift. Slap Jock. A one-foot high athlete (in my case, a hockey player) with a bulbous head. You would place a plastic puck on the player's stick and smack down on his head causing the spring-loaded arms to snap forward and, thus, shoot the puck. Such was my obsession with this gift that I could literally not wait until Christmas. So days before, I, stealthily I thought, opened each present that could contain the Slap Jock. Oh the joy when I found it! Oh the misery when my repackaging left much to be desired. I had ruined Christmas.
Lastly, being a bored boy in an apartment building, I decided it was a good idea to throw darts into the hallway walls on our floor. We did not own a dartboard so I can't fathom how we got our hands on darts. My father was not amused. We now long for such simple times.