Mickey

Disney is evil. Not in a fun, exaggerated way—evil in the way that most large institutions are evil. NDAs that keep employees quiet. Control mechanisms. A business model built on conditioning people’s emotional expectations. It works especially well on girls. They absorb the princess narratives young enough that it becomes structural. Later, they expect their actual relationships to match what Disney taught them, which is impossible.

Dating someone who grew up on Disney means committing to the whole thing. There’s an unspoken contract: watch the films, let them destroy you at the right moments, perform enjoyment of the Disney universe. By the third viewing of The Lion King, your defenses are gone and you’re crying at Mufasa and you don’t even care anymore. That’s the victory. Disney wins. It always wins.

I grew up on it too, so I can’t really judge. I was small, waking up early to watch Darkwing Duck, Captain Balu—those cartoons that pump courage and friendship directly into your brain before you know what’s happening. The messages stuck. They were supposed to stick. I remember learning from them in the way you only learn as a kid, without realizing you’re learning. It wasn’t like Dragon Ball Z, where it’s just constant violence and yelling. Disney had a point. Disney was trying to teach you something.

I watched Pepper Ann once with an ex—this blonde girl, busty, nothing special—and I was already thinking about someone else. Already knew what I was doing was garbage. Watched the whole episode anyway. Still remember what it was about, like my brain was cataloging the betrayal in real time. Disney does that. Even when you’re doing something you hate yourself for, the message gets through. It sticks.

So I’m grateful to Disney, which is fucked up because I also blame them for everything. They gave me something real as a kid. But they also wired me to expect love to feel like a fairy tale, and they wired every person I’ve cared about the same way. It’s a trap. I’m always going to be the guy who doesn’t measure up to the prince they imagined. I’m always the villain in their story.

And it all focuses on Mickey. That fucking mouse. Those enormous ears. That stupid laugh. The endless Oh boy routine like he’s not just a character but a philosophical position that Disney has decided to torture people with forever. I hate him. Not like hating a bad guy in a movie—actually, genuinely hate him. If I ever saw him in person—if I found myself in Disneyland and that thing appeared in front of me—I don’t trust myself. I really don’t. That mouse is everything Disney did to me, compressed into one ridiculous character. I want to hit it. I want to hit it so hard it stops smiling.