You know, as my mom said several [8,000] times regarding some of my boojy high school friends with ADD, "someone just needs to channel that boys energy!"
Boojy, sure, whatevs. They've got a kickass house salad.
I have decided I need to live in a museum in order to be completely fulfilled. I'm gonna quit my job*, sell the house; I'm packing my bags. You can find me in the hands-on science center or something, we'll live on vending machine Skittles and cuddle with mastadons at night for warmth. Who's with me?
Somewhat related to #1: I watched "Brat Camp" last night. I know, I know, I know. Here was me: "can't. break. away. from. this. junk TV. tractor. beam." But the show was kind of touching. (I actually had real, lifelike human emotions for this one girl, Lexi, who wears goth makeup and cusses a lot and just needs serious therapy and will be a kickass kid, probably; she reminded me of one particular member of my screwy family, and I kind of wanted to hug her.) The show also reinforced how BIZONKERS TERRIFIED I am of having children.
Another girl's parents were particularly clueless. Dude, I'd pride myself on at least knowing my 15-year old was doing lines of cocaine thrice weekly, even if I'm not able to stop it. Major Dad reacted surprisingly with "whoa, she doesn't come home at night?" when his wife prettied up to the camera with that info. (Are kids much smarter these days, to be able to pull this off? It's a far cry from youth of sneaking Beast cans out behind the Price Club. I mean, damn.) The dad's biggest issue was her using his hard-earned money to by her drugs. Uh. I'd don't think that would be my biggest issue. I'd like to think instead, I'd be all: pray tell, again, why you're 15 and doing coke? Cause it probably stunts yr growth, I'm guessing.
I got away with some minor shit at 15 & 16, but my mom used to SEND MY FATHER OUT ON RECONN MISSIONS, way past his early bedtime if I was breaking the big C. I'd come out of Nick's house or whatever hoodrat I was hanging out with at the time, and just find the dude casually cutting his nails with a paring knife while sitting on the hood of my car, incidentally parked miles, nay, towns, from where I was supposed to be. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. The man might be shrinking in his old age, but daddy? Still terrifying. I'm pretty sure the parental crazies didn't have a tracer on my 1984 Dodge, but who needs that technology when you have MOM-DAR?
Man, it's so easy to be high and mighty about other people's tv children. whooo hooo.
*"The retail train slowed down for a bend in the tracks and that's when I jumped off. I ran into Dave Lewis this morning at just the right time for him to tell me that I should quit my job. So I did, sending my resignation via hand-markered note packed in a box of straw, delivered to my former place of employment by a bike messenger in Hell's Angels drag. "Take this job and, I don't know; 'Shove it' sounds kind of harsh. Whatevs," the note said. "Give whatever's in my locker to Lieutenant Leprechaun. Holla." I can only imagine them looking speechless into the messenger's WWII pilot goggles before he turned and wheelied out of there. Must have been priceless. Badracula!" -- Miles Raymer