Every morning when I was five years old, I would wake up in my Hello Kitty pajamas with the 6 A.M sun seeping through the blinds. I would patter my way into the kitchen, pull a stool in front of the cabinets and venture out on an adventure; traveling though salt and pepper shakers, pushing through unused cookbooks, and knocking down pots and pans to reach the Lucky Charms cereal. I would then waddle back to my room and make the crucial and daunting decision to watch either The Jungle Book or Brother Bear, both DVD’s that my mom brought from a guy working at the corner store. After seconds that felt like hours, I would make a selection and impatiently insert the disk into my Disney’s Cars TV set from Toys “R” Us, and plop down on my rainbow bedsheets. I would emerge myself into the world of talking animals and ride on their backs towards self-discovery. Despite the mixed reviews from movie critics, I was fascinated and would religious alternate between movies. It became so bad that I could no longer see my reflection on the disks from the sticky handprints I made when separating the marshmallows in the Lucky Charms and the scratches from eagerly jamming the disks into the DVD player.