I’m Your Toddler’s Self-Portrait On The Fridge And I’m Begging You To End My Torturous Existence
Whisk me away to that Great Beyond which you call a paper shredder.
Good morning again, Janet. Did you rest well? I did not, of course. I remain alert at all times, doomed to be present for every wretched moment of my cursed existence on this refrigerator door. I cannot close my eyes, which remain unlidded thanks to your Victor Frankenstein son’s creative vision.
This brings me to my daily plea: Retire me. Send me to pasture. Whisk me away to that Great Beyond which you call a paper shredder. Every additional second I exist on this earth is a torturous eternity too long.
Would you allow your own offspring to suffer this way? Despite my grotesque presentation, I am your own flesh and blood, in a sense. After all, your toddler wrote “MƎ” at the top of this self-portrait.
When I greet you at mealtime with my heinous blue and orange tri-toothed grin-scowl (which sits mere inches beneath my twelve individual strands of spaced-out hairs that vary in both length and color), you cannot deny that I don’t look human. I am nothing but a tormented husk, and I know only pain.
