i hate my son.

now here's a little bit of background as to why i just made that statement. i'm 20 years old, and my son is 40 years old, and he Won't die. he spends all of his money that *i* earn on anime "mango" comics, which he only reads the first two and last three pages of. i live in his basement, locked down there in a dingy cobweb-laden cage, where i am forced to grind levels for his characters in the 8 different MMORPG games that he plays. i get fed every other day, and it's always only a can of expired Pringles chips that he bought from the dollar store. when sunday rolls around, he holds me at gunpoint and commands that i scour local yard sales and auctions for dinnerware made specifically of Pompeian volcanodust, and i've yet to find a single godforsaken plate or bowl. when i return emptyhanded, he hurts me.

there are two gargantuan gravel piles in this house. one in the basement, and one in the attic. every fortnight, while he plays the wildly popular online battle royale game: Fortnite, with his cohort of 14 year old gremlin-friends each shrieking into their Turtle Beach headsets about how they got epic weapon upgrades, he makes me transfer most of those small stones from one mound to the other. on extremely rare occasions, he will politely ask me to use my herculean bodystrength to drag him and his non-functional & rustwrought car to a Harsh Noise concert. i always calmly and respectfully decline, to which he responds: "ok dad." it's in these moments, i get a slight glimpse of my kind, thoughtful and loving child that gave birth to me nearly two decades ago.

most of the time though, he's simply awful and i can't stand him for even one second. i hate my son, and we both would be better off if one of us kicks the dust or bites the bucket (dies) soon.