My son is an alcoholic. That's why
I didn't give birth to them. (I didn't
presume my own son's gendersexual
identity choice or preference, just then.) (I
assume my son would be woke like
me, or that I would correct them
eventually to the point where one
of us would woke up. In break or bend,
I don't bet on me! Smart money's
on pup,) but yet, here's more
to the point:
I didn't give birth.
In some ways, you could call me
a traditionalist, and one of those ways
I'd say is this: giving birth is a mystery
ritual which unfolds in an agony and
bliss (?) whose rites I'd reserve elsewhere,
just now. Not that I'm saying a woman's
required, no! Or has to, oh hell no. Figure
it out! I'm just saying
Anyhow. I didn't give birth. And not
because alcoholics deserve not to live,
but this is my son
we're talking about, just here. Please.
Don't speak your turn, if you haven't
a clue from experience you
haven't been privy to
in this, your
life.
If you do
pop out (of
your turn, with your chime-in
piped-up clout) I might get so mad
I swear,
I could make you my wife. Like that. Right
here. Just how. You should hold my beer
while I kick your ass. Now.
Are we clear?
O, yeah. That's right.
Just pass.
I can see your end from here,
and it's passable,
but it's not quite right. From
a narrative arc standpoint, I'd say
you've got growing to do. Now:
flight, or fight, or fright, I think
we should try it your way. So
what do you say or want to do?
I can't talk you in, but I might
talk you out. Hey, my man -
let's call it a day and screw
in the night. There's no cause
here we should answer to.
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