Because he might look like this someday. And if he did, my suicide note would read…
First of all, your bitch mom told them your name was Dylan behind my back, because she knew I was categorically opposed to cursing a human child with the same condemnation of a name as every other future nothing from your generation. I should have walked out on both of you at that moment because, let’s face it; no hope remained once you were given that shit name.
Alas, I stuck around for thirteen years. Just long enough to see you roll up the driveway today looking the way you did. So that there’s no confusion – the skating never bothered me. Sure, when I was a kid, skating was what people that sucked at actual sports did, but I came to terms with its legitimacy and I was happy with the fact that as long as you were skating, at least you weren’t rotting your soul with pornography or disc golf. But I know that kids with skateboards like to imagine that the world has it in for them and their four-wheeled platforms of rolling anarchy, so I don’t want your delusions to cloud the reality of why my brains are splattered across the living room.
When you came to me last week with the Kohl’s circular ad and asked if we could go get the clothes the kid that looks like an underdeveloped lesbian was wearing, I thought it was the funniest bit of sarcasm I’d ever heard, never imagining for a moment that you might be fucking serious. But the tears of laughter streaming down my face turned to those of genuine sorrow when I saw you sulk away in search of sympathy from the woman that named you Dylan. I was sad not because you were sad, but because I realized, in that moment, that I had failed so comprehensively as a father that my own son desired to own maroon skinny jeans.
I always assumed I could raise a boy with enough pride and individuality that he’d never even consider entering his lower extremities into maroon skinny jeans. That, if anything, he’d form a posse of like-minded youth to deliver excruciating wedgies to anyone that sucks at life enough to wear such preposterous trousers. I’d like to blame my failure on anything but myself – your mother… the internet… the Illuminati. But you’re my son, so it all comes back to me. That you even felt comfortable approaching me about the purchase of maroon skinny jeans was almost too much to bear, but I persevered. Then, today happened.
I looked out the window and saw you rolling up the driveway in that assholic outfit from the advertisement. I initially felt there was no recourse but homicide, but fortunately you took so long tonguing the scuffs out of your shoes that my murderous rage subsided by the time you came inside. But, even though I weathered the initial shock without my foot entering the front and exiting the back of your skull, I knew that life could never return to normal having seen my own boy this way. I can never unsee your outfit, son. I would rather have watched you be the centerpiece of a gay Eiffel Tower as long as you put on normal clothes afterwards. So as the moments elapsed after seeing you today, my hatred shifted from you and your asshole-cut jeans to myself and my catastrophic paternal failure.
I’ve seen my worst nightmare and not murdered it. Now what? Kill myself, I guess. I’ve already fucked my kid’s head up to the point that he’s outfitted himself in maroon skinny jeans, a strategically tucked shirt revealing an unwarranted belt, and a winter hat worn not for insulation from frigid air but strictly for ornamentation – not to mention the fact that it’s crocked up to reveal his meticulously disheveled hair. And black socks. What the fuck? Where did you get black socks? You’re thirteen. No thirteen-year-old owns black socks. You mean to tell me you’re detailing your outfits to the point that every exposed inch is color-coordinated? Color-coordinated Christ, my kid’s a fag! I would have been shocked to catch you blowing dudes, but I wouldn’t have called you a fag over it. I’d have just told my buddies, “Yeah, I guess the kid’s gay. I’m gonna buy him a whore or two, see if takes, but life goes on.” But color-coordinated socks? I can’t tell anyone about that. Neither can I carry it on my conscience.
So… suicide it is.
Listen, kid, take this in stride. Don’t piss your panties – which I’m sure are color-coordinated with whatever knickknack is dangling from your pierced asshole. But, you know, look at yourself. I can’t fail you any worse than I already have, so it can’t possibly get worse in my absence. Don’t hate yourself for this. Well, hate yourself – but just enough to get out of that two-legged maroon embarrassment. If you have to hate someone wholeheartedly, though, let it be me. I deserve it. But, having seen you in that getup, I can’t stick around to see what other heartbreaking decisions you make. So before you can tell me that you’ve discovered REM, or that you’re joining the animal rights movement, or that you “really feel judged” by your middle school peers, I’m calling it quits.
A few last things –
> You know where the cleaning supplies are – go get them and take care of the mess I made after you’ve read this.
> Tell your mother that “baby weight” isn’t a valid excuse thirteen years after birthing her only child and that “erectile dysfunction” is a nice way of saying “the sight of your ass is boner death.”
> If anyone’s wondering – my final word was a Ric Flair-style “Wooooo!”
> Log into my Facebook and change my status to “Dead. LOL.” Keep a tally of “Likes” engraved on my headstone.
Finally, my parting advice to you, other than to burn your maroon skinny jeans, is simply to avoid the following at all costs:
- American education
- Guidance counselors
- Doctors you can’t call directly
- Groups of people holding signs
- Foods that don’t have parents
- Vaginas that just don’t feel right (physically or intuitively)
- Anyone that’s never been in a fight
- Anyone that says “I’m offended” for any reason
- Anyone that has a boss and likes their job
- Anyone that thinks “alternative” comedy is a real thing
Love or hate as necessary,
PS – I wrote a similar note the day you had your ears and anus pierced, which is the third worst thing your mother ever did after naming you Dylan and buying you the clothes that inspired this suicide, but I was sidetracked from that suicide when Gran Torino came on TV. Study that film, son. Right now you’re Thao, but with a wardrobe that makes you even more pathetic. Become Walt Kowalski.
PPS – Add your mom to the list of things to avoid. Dude, she fucking named you Dylan.