I'm an unsettled child, waiting for circumstances and fate to present themselves. The suits surround me, unnaturally gawking at their wives' best friends and new sports watches. My mother has scolded me once already today, instructing me not to speak, simply because she is easily irritated by any sounds other than that of her fellow and highly contemporary neighbors.
They once discussed how cute I was, falling down on the living room carpet at the gentle and perplexing sight of me. Now it's all nuisances and cold sores; gratified weekend escapes and nihilistic backdrops to help them better understand where it's all going and what's happening or about to happen to them specifically.
I consider starting fires or throwing a fit so verbose and centered that those sipping cocktails on the balcony would rather propel themselves over towards the sidewalk than continue to listen to my gargling screams as mother gets her bold new beau to restrain me in a diligent manner.
However, I instead dart around their tall legs, standing firmly in their heightened positions as socialites. I say nonsensical things about their haircuts and the make-up of their faces. Her eyes are too thin. His head is shaped like three bananas, an orange and two apples, smashed onto a popular cartoon character plate that was purchased to spread joy around the table. I want to smash this smiling dogs face in with my bare hands and let him know that he has no control over my mood. There isn't any song he can sing that will make me sing along. I'm not falling into the trap like the other guilty demons, sleeping on their time-outs, away from what all the other kids are doing.
I am the leader of my own murder squad. We are fighting internally for the crown that can only fit on one prescribed head of hair, and I've just found the scissors.