Saturday, November 01, 2003

I hate the concept of time.

I hate how the idea of being late makes my brother cry.

"I'm late, I'm late!" he tearies up, as he shakes his arms like a flamboyanat gay man on hot coals.

"Where are my shoes? I can't find them!" he screams, as he runs around in circles, chasing his invisible tail.

He's getting more Woody Allen-neurotic by the second. He slips on his backpack strap, landing on his bubble butt. Gets up and heads for the window, staring forlornly at his friend's house, before returning to his convulsions.

"I'm late, I'm late, I'm late. I'm calling mom. *beep, boop, boop, beep* Mah-mmy! I'm laaaaate. I don't know what to do. Everyone *inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale* is gone. I'm so scared *sniffle, sniffle*."

I'm a bad sister, and consequently, a future bad parent because the only way I know how to deal with an aguished child is to yell at him while spewing out practical advice:

"No one there is going to cry just because you're late. Just apologise and it'll be fine. Stop crying. I said, stop crying. Goddamn, stop crying, find your shoes and stop being a wiener. The party's going to be at the house whether you're there or not."

"It's at Lazer Mania."

"Wha??? Get your shoes on. WHERE ARE YOUR SHOES?!"

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