PLAYING WITH PURPOSE
December 10, 2025
One of my favorite old toys, I used to hate that I couldn’t detach the energy blaster lmao
There are a few things in life I’ve always taken seriously—God, my art, my work ethic, and apparently, even as a kid… my toys.
See, most children just played with toys.
I directed mine.
While other kids were smashing figures together like two untrained gladiators in a cage match, I had storylines. I had lore. I had arcs. I had whole multiverses in my bedroom before Hollywood even figured out how to write a crossover.
My notebook was the writer’s room.
My floor was the soundstage.
My imagination was the budget—and it was infinite.
I had Stone Cold Steve Austin teaming up with the Red Ranger like it was nothing.
I had the Z-Fighters doing joint missions with the Ninja Turtles.
To me, this wasn’t random—it was EPIC CINEMATIC STORYTELLING.
Getting my toys out wasn’t just playtime…
It was the highlight of my entire day.
And because I treated it like art, I hated playing toys with other kids.
They didn’t do it right.
They didn’t understand that if Goku was going Super Saiyan 3, there had to be a reason.
They didn’t care about character arcs, motivations, emotional stakes—none of that.
They would just pick a toy up and go full UNCAGED ANIMAL MODE with it, smashing characters together like they were reenacting a demolition derby.
No technique.
No signature attacks.
No honor.
I remember thinking:
“Bro… if you don’t stop disrespecting this storyline—”
And then came the trauma of 2005.
My birthday sleepover.
The fateful night that still lives in infamy.
One of my friends grabbed my brand-new Super Saiyan 4 Gogeta—the crown jewel of my toy universe, the masterpiece, the rarest of the rare—and broke it.
Broke it.
I was crushed.
Like spiritually crushed.
My mom took one look at my face, saw my soul leave my body, and shut the whole sleepover DOWN.
Everybody went home.
Lights off.
Event over.
And if you were a kid in the early 2000s, you know: Dragon Ball Z toys were near impossible to find.
If you saw one in the wild, you bought it.
Anime wasn’t mainstream yet.
Supplies were limited.
It was a true flex to own anything beyond a Goku keychain.
My Gojo figure.
So losing SS4 Gogeta?
That wasn’t just a toy breaking.
It was an era ending.
But now I’m grown.
And my relationship with toys has evolved—not disappeared.
I don’t play with them anymore.
But I collect figurines like they’re marble sculptures from the Renaissance.
The detail.
The craftsmanship.
The aura they bring to a room.
It’s like owning a miniature David by Michaelangelo.
From JJK to Dragon Ball, each figure feels like reclaiming a piece of that childhood magic—except now it’s curated, protected, and honored the way kid-me always wanted.
And trust me… the day they make Kagurabachi figures?
Oh, it’s over.
I’m front row for that drop.
Toys are forever.
The appreciation just changes with age.
When I was young, they were my way of creating worlds.
Now, they sit in my home as reminders of the boy who always knew he’d grow up to build universes—comics, albums, clothes, stories, anything I can dream.
Some passions don’t fade.
They just mature.
And honestly?
I’m glad I never stopped seeing the magic in them.
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