Sometimes, in the dark hours, I find myself Googling stuff I owned as a kid, primarily as a means of clinging to the rain-slick precipice of youth with shrivelled fingers. These toys are universally worse than I remembered: Fire-damaged faces, limited articulation, feeble accessories. The whole enterprise feels like inventing a time machine just so I can travel back 30-ish years and laugh at my own idiot self for ever thinking old things were good.
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