Every day before my Uncle Ross drove me to school, he would change my diaper. He kept them in his trunk, beside the jelly tots and fun-dips.
“Unkey Ross, I’m going into the 10th grade. I don’t need you to change my diaper anymore”
I knew he was only doing what was tradition. He held onto this tradition since I was 7-years-old. Thursdays was his diaper-day. He would usually eat Indian food on Wednesday.
“You want that Xbox, dont you?” he would say as I slowly walked to the car each Thursday morning.
His wife died giving birth to his brother. Ever since then he had this empty look in his eyes, I felt bad for the guy. The only thing he looked forward to was the morning ritual.
He even drove me to my prom. I had a powder-bleu tux, donated by Uncle Ross himself. My date was Peggy-Sue, a middle-class gal from the suburbs. We danced all night and really hit it off. I don’t know if it was the spiked punch, or the clear connection between us, but by nine o’clock we were making out right on the dance floor.
nine turned to ten, and then came twelve. The prom was over but there was a hotel party just down the road. We found an empty bathroom, I hoisted her up on the counter and slid down her dress. Her gorgeous breasts popped out and I began suckling on them. She reached down to grab my pants, but started rubbing first. She began feeling around, but suddenly pushed me away
“Are you wearing a fucking diaper?”
Uncle Ross pulled through and bought me the X-box for my 21st birthday.
The icing on the cake for me is that Joseph’s original message wasn’t “My father died yesterday” or even “Wanna see a movie on Thursday?”. It was “Hey dude whats up.” And THIS was somehow so important that ignoring it caused the world to collapse.
Imagine: Tristan could have bypassed that whole enormous tantrum with a judiciously applied, “Nothin”
I hate people that say “what’s up?” or “hey” or “yo” and if you don’t reply they get pissed. If you want to talk to me, then talk. And the “can I ask you a favor?” comment, followed by nothing, pisses me off, big time.
If you want a favor, tell me what it is, and then I’ll tell you if I’ll help!
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“What is it?”
“Can you help me wash my grandpa?”
People don’t answer me all the time. My heartfelt messages just sit their on their Walls, waiting for someone or something to notice them. Then they shuffle into a corner, weeping silently into a plastic cup of Diet Coke, until the barman gently explains that they have to go away now.