I know, of course, that all of this worrying came only from a place of love. My mother likes to remind me that I was a miracle baby, because her uterus had been almost entirely removed before she became pregnant with me, and doctors told her the likelihood of conceiving another child was basically next to impossible. Which is all to say that I was not a miracle, but what they call a big, fat accident. But still. I was her precious baby boy, handed to her by Jesus himself. I grew up, in other words, being what psychiatrists might later diagnose as “hopelessly coddled into emotional and physical dependency,” which is just fancy talk for “loved too much and fucked up because of it.”

By the time I was old enough to go to preschool, I’d already become so terrified of the grown-up world that I literally refused to get out of the car on the first day of school. When my mother came around the car to open the door for me, I’d scurried up to the driver’s seat, locked all the doors, and sat steadfast in nonviolent protest. If I’d had the stamina, I would still be there today. They managed eventually to lure me out with the promise of sugar and gifts, but once we were inside, I refused to be put down, and dug into the thick of my mother’s arm while three grown adults attempted to peel me from her. This happened every morning for the first week of preschool, until they finally broke me.

Of course, I can’t entirely blame my mother for teaching me to fear the world, in part because she will read this book, and if she’s made it this far, I’m sure she’s already pissed, and I have no doubt she’s already plotting her own revenge memoir just to publish every embarrassing detail of my entire existence in excruciating specificity. But also, I have to be fair. Because Michael Jackson is also to blame.

Now I know what you’re thinking, and no, I never had to go to court and point at a doll and I’m almost positive I’ve never been to Neverland Ranch. But Michael Jackson ruined my childhood nonetheless. Let me explain.