I was only nine years old. I adored Comrade Stalin so much, I acquired a large collection of tanks and communist theory. I'd recount a prayer written in blood to Stalin every night before retiring to bed, praising him for the life I've been given.
"Stalin is love," I would say, "Stalin is life."
Trotsky hears me and calls me a wheel rotating in six dimensions. I knew he was simply envious of my devotion of Stalin. I called him a traitor to the revolution. He sells me his paper and demands me to dismantle the bureaucracy.
I'm sobbing now and my face aches. I lay in bed and it's really cold. A warmth is moving towards me. Have you ever heard of a ghost feeling warmth before? It's Stalin. His Communist theory is drawing me closer. I'm elated. He whispers in my ear, "I just want to seize the means of production and crush the Nazis."
Stalin guides me with his firm hands, methodically building socialism in one country and crushing the Nazis. I begin to hyperventilate as my compulsion grows. He leads the Red Army through the Nazi lines continuously. Glorious light shot through his eyes as he irradiates the Nazis.
This is glorious. Absolutely glorious.
Class consciousness now flows through my veins. An ache in my muscles stems from the unreleased energies experienced by my entire body. I want to seize the means of production and shoot the Tsar again.
Stalin was purging the party with his NKVD, making the Trots scream left and right.