I have a good kid. I do. But sometimes…
Sometimes I think he’s sneaking out of the house to cavort with feral pigs and vodoo priestesses in the moonlight while Red and I sleep. There’s no other way to explain some of his behaviour. Like tonight.
It’s hard to even think about. Here I was, all poised to write about love and acceptance, and then Boo pulled a stunt I didn’t think we’d ever have to deal with again. (We? Shit. Red is always MIA when stuff like this goes down.)
I can’t even begin to put into words what rushed through my mind in the first milliseconds after I opened Boo’s door. Revulsion. Confusion. Rage. All of them simultaneously, capped off with a nice healthy dose of WHAT THE FUCK.
Y’all, the cleaning process sounded like I was disemboweling a live coyote. Between me gagging and screeching (WHY! Why did you do that?) and Boo yipping like he’d just been run over by an ice cream truck (I not! I not!), I’m sure our new neighbor seriously thought about calling the authorities.
I never want to do that again. It was fucking Sodom and Gomorrah, but with more shit. It was a scene from one of those Saw movies, but with more shit. MORE SHIT, people. I had to dig it out of the crevices of his crib with a fucking toothpick. There’s not enough bleach in the motherfucking world to wash those images from my eyeballs.
There is a God, and He hates me.