My parents don’t like me. At least that’s the impression I get. Even before the whole conversion to the living dead thing, they always seemed to express great disappointment in just about every aspect of my life. I wasn’t smart enough. I had no friends. I wasn’t fast or strong, so I never made the sports teams. I wasn’t even tall enough to ride the fun rides at the fair.
They keep to themselves these days since my condition, according to medicine’s best diagnosis, pays a staggering $860 a month in disability welfare. I see none of this, by the way. They keep the refrigerator stocked and pay for my World of Warcraft account. As I mentioned earlier, liquor is out of the question. They don’t believe me when I assure them my liver is indestructible.
I try to drop hints their way on the odd day when I feel like provoking them. Once I told them that I am a master magician and I can chop my hand off and grow it back in seconds. To no surprise, they didn’t even look when I did it. It was my mistake for attempting to interrupt “American Idol,” a show about kids that make their parents proud. I’ve tossed butcher knives in the air and attempted to catch them with my teeth, but my mom just yelled at me and said she is not paying for dental work. She also reminded me that 47 year old, short, fat boys covered in zits have an even harder time picking up girls when they have no teeth. I find it more depressing that they might still believe I have a chance with any girl, teeth or no teeth, than the fact that they clearly demonstrate no support or interest in any hobbies I have ever had.
I actually can’t remember the last time my parents and I have spent any quality time together. In hazy memories, I remember sitting on the side of a lake while they paddle around in a boat without me. A few months ago my mom sat in the bathroom while I scrubbed the whole thing as punishment for when she walked in on me watching an R rated movie. Seriously, I was lectured about the devil’s work because “The Shining” was on cable when she brought me my macaroni and cheese. Last summer my dad brought me to jury duty, but I had to sit in the lobby for 3 hours until they dismissed him for being legally deaf. I swear he only asked me to come so I could drive the car around the block while he “went in real quick.” I had to explain to him how much gas that could cost if he wasn’t dismissed right away. It was the most complete conversation we’d had in years.