Boy Goes Against the Agreement With His Parents

No! No! No! Yes, I peed on the carpet, but in my defence, dad had been playing video games instead of taking me to the playground. I was only two and a half. Even now though, vague remembrance of guilt lingers in my mind when I see a carpet, and if I put my feet on one, I can’t feel the homey softness, only that a part of me is naked. Mum was angry, very angry with dad, while the glitch of disappointment was saved for the carpet, for what I had done to it. Finally, she dressed me and took me out, leaving him to deal with the stain. No raid for you, my man.

Oh my god! Stop it! My oldest clear memory; we went to the park, the spring had just turned up to colour the slope into green. The grass felt softer than a hug, but mom yelled I would eventually roll over shit some dickhead didn’t pick up. I had to take a lot of shit from the earliest of days. Can’t do this, can’t do that, can’t do then. I wouldn’t take it anymore. So I rolled into shit. The incredulous gaze at my sweater slowly lowering down mom’s face to emanate a trembling articulation from her shaky lips – this is not what we agreed upon – happened when I was three. She threw the sweater into the trash and made me do a walk of shame to the flat. As if I weren’t her baby, she kept repeating. Her little boy. Dad laughed at the sight of our vivid entrance, which deflected the attention from what I had done. A feeling of relief mixed with guilt as the shit I picked up managed to smear the entire day. She told him to grow up. He went to play Red Dead Redemption. We both slept on the couch.

What’s wrong with you?! Have I ever taught you to react that way? Where did you learn that? Aggression is disgusting! It’s disgusting! At some point, I stopped eating shit. Though my parents were proud, they still didn’t like how the changes in my character manifested in certain situations. There were these two idiots on the playground, they were messing with me, invading my private space, and staring as if saying: make a move boy, and we’ll slice you. I wouldn’t take it, so I went for the cheek and bit one of them. The other one ran to his dad. That dad beckoned my dad who was on the mobile. A person screaming. There was blood. I think I caught a part of his ear also. My dad gave his phone number to the bastard’s distraught mother. Somebody mentioned the police. They represent this kind of behaviour, another one said. We need to overcome the incident as a community. We left in a hurry, never to return again.

What’s the big deal? It was my birthday celebration. I’m five, the bitch is four and a half, and she was asking for it. A family friend, we gathered in their backyard, and I took my chance while the grown-ups were discussing politics and similar uncanny stuff. I just wanted to have some fun on my birthday, and she was no party pooper. That’s it! We’re done. Mom and Dad locked me in the bedroom; they’ve been talking all afternoon. I heard a phone call, an appointment has been made. In the morning, dad looks at me, expressionless as a robot, mom is dead serious. Let’s go. I’m too old to get castrated!!! You had your fun, buddy, said dad. You just didn’t listen, you can whine all you want. I’m not listening now, lalalala, said mom. You should’ve thought about this earlier. Keep whining, buddy. And I do. I whine and I moan to the Moon. Do you still love me as I do you?

Oh, sweet tail, elegancy above anus that lingers in my mind, my downfall, the memory of you is nothing but a fart. We’ve become a happy family.

Ibis redibis

There are trolls, plain trolls, trolls per se, and there are Scottish trolls. Now, trolls just go online and express their frustrations, assertively pushing their agendas, usually upon people who they feel are lesser than them, but society disagrees. They are minute men, squeezing out the juice from their acne and wallowing in it. Scottish trolls, on the other hand, play characters, and while trolls get upset, Scottish ones enjoy themselves like a pensioned Cuban playing dominos. We are dashing, we have your photos, and yes, I am caressing the back of your ear. Now put the finger in it. How does the stickiness feel, me lad?