The Word of The Parent

It’s one of those days. The parent(s) is yelling and honestly you don’t give a damn. You’re so not into it, this fighting. I mean you’re a pacifist and pretty sure that even verbal fighting is against the grain of your belief. So you sit, and you act like you listen but seriously you’re wondering. Should I cut my nails? They look long and raggedy. Ugh. Will the parent notice I left if I went to go fetch me a nail cutter so I can do my nails while I pretend to listen…actually do something productive? So you look up and attempt to zone in on the reprimanding, but all you hear is “blah blah blah”. You see the parent all blue from the yelling and the constant eyebrow wiggling. You think you might even see spit coming out. You scoot your chair farther back and decide the nails can wait… you’re in a spit zone. So you know, keep your guard up. You brainstorm again on what to do. Ahh, a stray piece of thread on your shirt. So go ahead what you waiting for? Pull that bastard. You are pulling and you’re having a damn good time but… what the fuck? Now you’re shirt scrounging up. That’s what you get for buying a shirt on sale. Damn bargains: first stray thread, now distortion. Now you’re tempted to go on a hunt for the scissors. After all, you have partial OCD and this shit is annoying you to hell. But how can you? The parent is going on. You stare up at the parent, marvel at their capacity to talk while turning blue. Freaking awesome skills. You wait until the smurf ends their triumphant speech and then, when released, go look for a scissor. That damn thread has got to go.


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