You know better than I do how quickly we could be through all this.
So why? Why let me waddle around in shit? What kind of parent are You?
Just grab my wrist, slap it hard, and make me get into the cosmic minivan.
Ground me. Send me to bed without dinner. Whatever.
Just take me home already.
I know You're patient.
In fact, that's the problem; I'm growing to despise Your patience.
But I suppose You'll be patient about that, too.
Remember when You knew my left knee wouldn't carry me
So You fixed it?
Just like that?
Well can't You just do it again?
I mean, it's basically the same thing.
Somewhere in my head my joints don't work right.
They're rusted out hinges. They're bent.
They stick; I want to do right by You but my hinges stick.
I want to quit shoving my nasty hands into those piles of filth.
I get coffee grounds under my fingernails.
I get used tissues and feminine products stuck to the backs of my hands.
I get bits of busted light bulbs embedded in my forearms.
I get to the bottom. I touch it a couple times. I look around a little.
Then I retrieve my hand and lick it.
I grimace and decide not to do it again.
I feel sick for a day.
I write about it online, like I'm determined to change it.
But I can't.
But You can!
Look, You know I hate this.
I know You hate this.
Can't that be enough?
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