Look. Mom. Mom, look. I hate them. I hate them so much. Well, because they make me go all junkety. Yes, Mom, you do too know what junkety means, I told you before... Don't tell me junkety is not a word just because you don't like what I mean by it, I told you before... Yes, it's like when the clouds all seize up and won't turn any color except gray, and it's like they're frowning down at you except they don't actually care because they're apathetic and lazy. And I was eating radishes the day Erika broke up with me; I was eating radishes the day Mr. Scruffles lost his battle with the truck's wheel; I was eating radishes the day you told me I was going to have a younger sibling, and isn't that a lot of radish-associated trauma for a twelve-year-old?
Yes, Mom, I understand that eating radishes does all kinds of good things and will save me from disease and obesity and the inevitable darkness waiting at the end of each brief flickering life. But I'm twelve, Mom, so pronouncements of inevitable doom don't really disturb me so much as when my video games fail. I'll worry about that stuff after Erika comes back and I'm happy again. Radishes only remind me I don't understand mortality. And I really hate that. So no radishes. No, Mom. Just. No.
No comments:
Post a Comment