|Did you doubt for a minute that I had voices in my head?|
Or are they?
See what they do? They do this every time I see my parents. Because they never achieved puberty, or else they're just litle shits. Not my parents, the voices. I have to beat them back with a stick sometimes. Which is painful to the skull, but probably amusing to watch.
Here's some of the other smack the voices are talking right now:
Precocious Daughter isn't well-behaved enough.
You're not successful enough.
Beloved Spouse isn't successful enough.
That missing piece of tile on the kitchen backsplash means you're a failure.
The front lawn is an inch too long.
The back lawn is a testament to - what's that word again? - oh yeah, failure.
Every speck of dust in the living room condemns you.
God, who picked out that paint color?
Paul McCartney will never marry you.
You're dumb and you like dumb things.
You are unlike good people in all you do.
Really? Ugh. I'm not saying that some of these things aren't true - not the part about Paul McCartney, though, I'm totally working on that. And my parents may actually think some of these things (it's entirely possible they don't dig our red-pink-and-teal kitchen as much as I do). What I'm saying is that the voices need to shut the hell up because they're pissing me off and making me feel 12.
But I have a plan.