the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Chuck Talk

I know it’s at least an hour before your alarm usually goes off, but I want out of here, not for any particular reason, not because I have to use the bathroom, because I don’t, and when you let me out I’m just going to sit there idiotically. I just want to be out there. I’ve tried shuffling around violently all morning, and that hasn’t worked. The exasperated sighs aren’t getting my point across either. It’s definitely time to start whimpering.

You respond to whimpering. If I were to start crying, which is a notch louder than whimpering, you might yell at me in that annoying accent, and I hate it when you do that. That may shut me up for a couple minutes, tops, but I know you can’t resist my forlorn, almost imperceptible whimpers, especially when I arrange them in groups of three with an emphasis on the last syllable: whihhh, whihhh, whihhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…. [dramatic pause] ….whihhh, whihhh, whihhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I can go louder if I have to.

———-

I know you’ve got work to do, and I can totally sense the fact that you could bend a lead pipe with the force of your tightened sphincter, but I need some “me” time. I’m bored, and I need you to entertain me. No, I don’t want that bone, that bone just sits there. And that ball doesn’t throw itself, now does it.

I’ve been patient all morning, and I’m at a point where I’m either going to start pacing or whimpering, and I might try a combination of both. You don’t believe me? Are you kidding? Just for that I’m goint to pace, whimper, and intermittently rest my pathetic head on your leg, all in the same cycle.

And you know how I ususally pace in a line that goes in and out of the room? This time I’m going to pace in a circle around your desk, around and around and around, inching ever closer to your chair until I’m sitting on your feet and leaning into your legs with the entire weight of my body. And I’m going to whimper so forcibly that I’m going to hyperventilate and drool a shallow puddle under your chair.

You obviously don’t love me.

You’ve never loved me.

———-

I know when we go to your friends’ house that I’m supposed to leave that one guy alone. But that guy obviously doesn’t like me and I think he needs to like me. I know that everyone else in the room likes me, but that one guy needs the most attention. When he’s sitting across the room from me I can tell that he wants me to run and jump into his lap and lick his face with my hairy sewer breath. He likes that. He may not like me, but I know he likes it when I put my cold, stinky paws up his shirt and when I sneeze on his pizza. And I know he loves it when I nibble his 3-yr old son’s nose. I think that by the time we leave tonight he will like me, especially after I stick my wet nose on the monitor of his new PowerBook. Those PowerBooks smell good.

———-

I know you don’t love me, but your Mom loves me, and if I go sit next to her at the table and look at her with that worry wrinkle face she will give me an entire bulk package of Costco beef jerky, one piece at a time, even though you told her not to feed me things like that. And then I will go downstairs and stand in the middle of your bed and throw up every last bit, including my breakfast and the sausage crumbs I found on the floor in Granny’s room, one heaving, steaming chunk at a time. Will you love me then?

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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