"But m-m-m-mommie! I didn't d-d-d-doooooooo anything!" the young girl wails. Well, stutters is more of the correct term for her manner of speech I suppose. I think it was supposed to be crying, but I'm not entirely sure.
"And how come h-h-h-he never gets y-y-yelled at?!" This bit really caught my ear. Was she talking about me? Of course she was. Why would I even ask that? The normal hellish dread of getting involved in one of the family's asinine talks about the supposedly fragile state of our relationships swept over me. Why does every single argument that materializes in this house have to be made into a Shakespearean drama? I feel like I'm listening to a 1930s radio soap opera as the dreaded melodrama creeps under my door. It busts open, except this time by my own hand. I'm thirsty. I walk down the steps just cautiously enough not to attract attention. I sneak into the kitchen where they are situated talking about some over staged problem that had occurred earlier. Something about my father not being able to drive somebody somewhere. It wasn't important-my goal was the ice water. I crept toward the refrigerator trying to make as little of a noise as possible. All I wanted was the ice wa-"GET OUT OF HERE! THIS D-D-D-DOESN'T CONCERN YOU!"...damnit...they spotted me. I try to explain that I only am after the nourishment that awaits me in the fridge. "I HATE YOU!" she shrieks. I've heard that one before. I don't care whether she means it or not. I just want my beverage. I quickly pour myself a glass and hurriedly walk back up the stairs with it. I admire it a for a moment-an oasis in the middle of a burning hot desert. Finally, sustenance.
But alas, as I bring the glass to my lips another shrill cry of junior high angst rings through my ear-"MOMMY WANTS YOU DOWNSTAIRS, NOW!" Oh Christ. You must be kidding me. What terrible crime did I perpetrate this time? Triple homicide suicide? Nope, I'm still alive. Am I a blackout drunk? Did I kill someone while I was out? No...I don't drink. Whatever it is though, it must be terrible. Assuredly I have committed some heinous defilement of the law that I should be aware of, but am not. What a terrible human being I am! So like the noble, upstanding citizen I try to be, I bolt downstairs like The Flash on speed trying to see what is the matter, and whether I can help solve it. Actually it's nine-thirty, and at this point I just want to go to sleep, so the Flash Gordon comparison might have been a slight hyperbole. I suppose it was more like The Incredible Hulk trying to find his way home after a long night of binge drinking.
At any rate, I rush downstairs just in time to get the normal sheepish 'I don't want to be involved in this-please don't be angry with me' look from my father, and the '...you're dead...' look from my mother. I haven't gotten that look in awhile. From my mother I mean-the first one comes about quite often actually.
"You've been slacking off lately."
"I have?"
"You know you have."
"I do?"
"Don't fuck with me!"
"What?"
This goes on for about fifteen minutes and then escalates into me getting so confused that I'm starting to believe that my brain is the last of a model that Humans Inc. doesn't make anymore. Outdated technology that nobody should be allowed to use except under experimental purposes, like a television that operates through a series of tubes. Why is my mind not going in the same direction of everybody else's? It's a one way street, and not only am I going the wrong way, but my car has crashed, and everybody's just swerving around the wreckage. Where's Triple A when you need them?
She tries to make me realize that not only am I wrong, but I am responsible for the recent collapse of the family. I am quick to point out that we're all still standing upright and have yet to collapse, and she's quick to point out that "FUCK YOU". It is rarely a good idea to expose my wry sense of humor around the family.
This is another thing that 'grinds my gears', so to speak. My sense of humor is not usually tolerated when the family is near. My mother can stand it if she wants to, but this opportunity arises very rarely. It is very entertaining when it does though. A few weeks ago, I was sick so I went to the doctor's office. Being only sixteen, my mother of course had to bring me and the nurses there all thought she was my sister. We had a good laugh when it was all over, but again-this comes around once in a plaid moon. Yes my dear friends-a plaid moon. Do not attempt to contradict me. I've done so much research on this subject that it would put a certain intellectually charged fourteen year old child prodigy I know to shame. The plaid moon comes around once every one hundred bazillion takrillion years. Approximately
Now before you, the reader, starts getting angry with me because of all my overly witty metaphors and unorthodox statement of teenage angst, you've got to realize that I do in fact see everyone else's side to this. I usually only see their backsides because I anger them so much that they refuse to speak to me, but I still see a side of them that I understand. I comprehend their point. The fact that I'm a normal sixteen year old boy angers them sometimes. Why pray tell? The answer is quite simple:
You've all heard the story of Paul Bunyan, yes? It varies slightly depending on which region of Canada it comes from, or which transvestite lumberjack tells it [/Monty Python reference], but it usually starts out with the theory that this Paul fellow was born a man. Either that, or a giant baby, but sometimes a man...when I tell it...Anyway, my theory is this: my mother and father were born at the ages of twenty-one and thirty respectively. This doesn't sound right to you? I'd like to hear you come up with a better one. Really I would.
DISCLAIMER: Wait a minute-can I even have one of these? I don't even have a lawyer to defend myself if someone decides to challenge it.
DISCLAIMER II: Disregard that disclaimer please. Unless you are a lawyer ready to defend me. For free.
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