I know that someday I’ll turn around and my daughter will be a woman grown. I’m not looking to skip all the things that precede that day, but can we at least skip ahead to the part where she shuts the fuck up for five minutes?
This kid is many things, but able to be quiet for any discernable length of time without it coming to me snapping at her doesn’t rank particularly high. Sometimes she’ll stop being a wall of white noise with shitty volume control. Those are bittersweet moments, mayflies of tranquility. Much like your lunch break, they are over far too soon.
If she were in a comic book, and for all I know she fucking is, she would have no thought bubble. Everything tumbles out. It’s like a broken trap door. A thought or observation walks into her brain and then drops right into, and subsequently out of, her mouth.
Sure, sometimes it’s fun, in that Jerry Maguire way, to go nonsense for nonsense. She’ll say something ridiculous, and I’ll fire back with something far more asinine, and we’ll banter like that for a bit. But those moments, like meth, should really be a sometimes thing. I mean, for fuck sake, save something for the weekend.
I’d also like to point out that this babble machine has been the single most effective cock blocker in my entire life. Sure, there are other factors in the mix, but she’s a goddam assassin of sex. I’d love to tell her it’s actually kind of ironic, considering how she came to be, not to mention all the practice rounds that led up to that fateful day.
Possibly, this is the point where you’re expecting me to say something like, “Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my kid, but…” But nothing. I’m not saying that fucking disclaimer, because if you need to see that, then fuck you, too. I promise you that your parents have never hated anyone as much as they’ve hated you at points growing. Yes, I know this applies to me, too.
I know this as a fact, because one time during a family camping trip, when it was just me, my mom, and my two brothers, my mom lost her shit and shouted out, “You guys are assholes!” Lemme tell ya, nothing cuts the shit faster than my mom swearing. She didn’t do it then, and she won’t do it now, some thirty years later, not without preemptively hushing her voice.
Here’s the thing about mom calling us assholes: She was absolutely right. I have no doubt about that. Kids are fucking obnoxious when they’re in groups, and siblings stuck together? Sorry, Laura Ingalls Wilder, fuck you and the little prairie you came in on.
I will take a moment and establish my bona fides. Who am I, you may wonder, to decide who is and who isn’t an asshole? It’s a fair question, and I’m sorely tempted to write my answers down on my hand and slap you across your face.
First and foremost, I’m an asshole. I’m from New England, a land of sarcastic assholes. Second, I’m from the suburbs. Third, I sold cellphones for the better part of a decade. You know that smiling dick with desperation in his eyes who was oddly neutral in the battle royale that is Android v. Apple? Yeah, that was me, once upon a time. For a decade.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sit in my parked car, engine off, windows up, and enjoy the silence.
This week’s prompt: Write something that can be read in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. I would power through a cigarette, so I don’t really know how long it takes other people to smoke.