I intend to turn your son into one of my more serious television companions. I’m sure you’re suspicious of the whole “Yeah, we’re just gonna go watch TV in the basement” thing. I would be too. For all you know, I could be down there stealing your son’s sperm while we cover up our noise with Sarah Palin’s Alaska. But don’t worry, that’s not what’s happening. Sure, I’ll make out with your son while the Food Network is on, but all other programming is sacred. We’re not just going to sit down for a couple episodes of whatever we think looks good. We are going to conquer entire seasons of whatever I think looks good.
I intend to eat copious amounts of fast food with your son. My positive influence will extend to matters of cuisine – if your son has never had a Popeye’s biscuit before, my first order of business will be to mature his palate. You might not notice his attitude about food improving as he spends more time with me, but you will undoubtedly notice the staggering amount of T-Bell trash in your trash.
I intend to pretend to be chill as fuck. Even when I’m freaking out about petty shit, I will hide it. An example of this petty shit is your son’s Facebook profile, which will become incredibly familiar territory to me. And I’ll start to think it’s my territory. The desire to defend it will be absolutely overwhelming – I swear to god, if these beautiful girls keep it up with the “Love youuuu! Let’s get together!” posts, the urge to pee all over your son’s wall with dumb YouTube videos will only grow stronger. But don’t worry about it; I will suppress this instinct. I will pretend like I don’t want to compete with those beehatches, even when all I really want to do is throw down and wrestle with them (no homo!).
I intend for you to adore me. You might be weirded out by the four hour blocks of time that I spend watching TV with your son. But I’ve def listened to NPR before and I can run a mile, so I expect you to fantasize about future grandchildren every time I grab the remote and nestle into the groove I’ve created on your couch.
I intend to think about your son 24/7. I admit that this is an unsettling thing to admit. But let’s say I’m in line at Dunkin Donuts, or talking with my mom, or watching The Real Housewives of Wherever, or tying my shoes, or doing whatever – the back of my mind is probably filled with thoughts of what your son might be doing, or how this reminds me of him, or whether or not he’ll like these shoes. I’m freaking the fuck out about how much I like your son. I’ve never felt this strongly about anyone – not even my junior year history teacher, who was super hot and totally my soul mate.
Photo by Michael Inscoe