Eat Soap and Die

It’s been almost a month since we last rendezvoused: one trip to Michigan, two birthday parties, four threats of being sold to the highest bidder on Craigslist, three different soaps tried in my mouth for cussing, and 1,289 sentences ended in “you knucklehead,” “you poop butt,” or “you penis breath.”  Mom is drinking heavily again.  She is counting the hours until I’m back in school nine hours a week, and while she voiced some concern over whether or not I would be kicked out of the program last spring, she doesn’t give a shit now.  I’m paying those fuckers plenty of money.  They’re keeping him! is her sweet, saucy, stay-at-home-mommy mantra now.  Hell.  I don’t even know where to begin.

My trip to Michigan was fun.  I got to fish, go for boat rides, party with One-Eyed Willy, go to a water park, eat a LOT of candy, watch Netflix for kids at my leisure, sleep in a king-size bed with mommy and daddy, ride a bad-ass hot rod bicycle, eat s’mores, and stay up late most nights.  When we got back to California, I decided I would rather be in Michigan, and since that wasn’t in my cards, I decided to be an exceptional prick.  And I have been ever since.

I’m back into cussing profusely, mainly because its starting to illicit the appropriate responses from mommy again.  Instead of ignoring me, she’s back to flipping a fucking lid when I shout Shit!  Dammit! Shut your mouth!  Bitch!  God blessed! from my time-out rug.  Such a poetic, verbal potluck of magical words I will lash her with, until her eyes cross, and she uses what I would argue is unnecessary force to drag me to my room.  I sense her weakness as of late.  Turning four is much like drinking the blood of a superhuman monster.  I’m smarter, stronger, assholier, wittier, better looking, and just plain hungrier for victory against the parental unit.  A couple of weeks ago, though, some friend of mommy’s suggested she put soap in my mouth–a real pain in my ass, this suggestion from her bitch friend–because of course mommy was like giddy with excitement to try it out.  The first week, though, joke was on the hag, because mommy was using this flowery orange bar of soap from her collection of flowery, colorful soaps, and it tasted a bit like marmalade.  Eventually, daddy figured out this was not a sufficiently nasty enough soap to shove down my throat, so they ended up taste-testing several prospects right in front of me while I sat on the toilet quietly with my hands in my lap, waiting for them to choose the one that just might make me vomit.  Can you picture this?  Like a couple of hens in a fucking smelly candle shop.  Assholes. They did eventually find the grossest one, and while I haven’t cleaned up my language completely–and I never will, have you fuckers met my mother?–I’m thinking a little harder about what comes out of my mouth now.

Terrorizing Leona has become my heroin.  Even though she is finally done hanging off of mommy’s boobies–thank God, I thought Rat Baby was going to lose her virginity before she got cut off from those things–Mommy is still so kissy-facey and lovey-dovey with her all the time that the only thing I can do to keep from throwing up in my mouth is to run at The Rat full force and tackle her, sack style.  I’ve gotten really good at this.  I did it three times in the San Francisco airport before we left for Michigan.  Tackling a 1-year old baby also gets a lot of attention from strangers, by the way, including highly disapproving looks at mommy and daddy who are used to this behavior and therefore mildly reactive.  Anyway, tackling is fun, but if I don’t have enough room to get a good running start, I will just do things like back-hand her in the head when I walk by, grab her arm really hard and bring her to her knees, or get really close to her face and scream as loud as I can.  Sometimes she cries, sometimes she doesn’t, but one hundred percent of the time I go in a time-out.  I know she’s the favorite because she has sweet, curly locks of hair that mommy loves to brag about, and when we are discussing my hair, it’s about how I have an imperfect hairline, or how thick and unruly and lackluster and style-less it is.  Also, Leona’s skin is soft and supple; mine is rashy, rough to the touch and full of eczema.  I also have a lot of itchy bumps on my ass like 70% of the time.  The icing on the cake is that she makes perfect kissing noises with her lips and everyone seems to think this is a big fucking deal.  I make perfect farting noises with mine, and I get time-outs for it.  Ahh, well.  The haters are going to be stepping on my heels for the rest of my life.  I might as well embrace it.  Or wear flip-flops all the time.

Well, I’ve got some shit to do.  I’m going to Papa Tim’s and Gramma Jett’s house tonight so I have to practice my Please Let Me Stay Here Forever Because My Parents Suck speech in the mirror a couple more times.  Did you know I can fake tears?  This time it’s going to work.  I really, really want to live there instead, without a mommy who smells like stale booze, and without a sister who shits her pants an extra four times a day just so she can break up me and booze-breath’s game of Toy Story Memory. 

Wish me luck.  If you never hear from me again, the speech worked.


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