Growing up with two older sisters, I spent my young childhood amidst a constant struggle for gender superiority. Whether it was me being dragged to a New Kids on the Block concert as our group Chanukah present in 1988 or my parents getting my sisters back with a shared Sega Genesis the following winter, there were cataclysmic results whenever our two worlds collided. They had their things, I had mine and little was shared between the two. We fought for everything from cereal choice to radio stations. Nothing however, was a bigger struggle than the ever-elusive remote control. We both wanted to pick what we watched at all times and refused to back down. I wanted Thundercats; they wanted Punky Brewster.

So imagine my shock and dismay, the first time I ever heard the loud aggressive screams of my older sisters watching wrestling…

When I was 10 years old I beat other kids up. This didn’t happen under an oak tree after sixth-period, if I ever made an arrangement like that I’d most certainly not be alive to tell the tale. No, this took place in a much more unpleasant setting, with pits of spikes and pools of acid.

It was 3:30 and I was over at my friend Jamie’s house. He had all the essentials for the perfect after school hang-out: Sega Genesis, two controllers, RF adapter, and Tostino’s pizza rolls (complete with a mother to cook them)…