1.) Child's new computer was assembled to everyone's satisfaction except the computer's. So waiting for a part from Amazon to convert the power supply. The computer's name, for you playing the home game, is Stiles. Yeah, welcome to my life.
2.) My birthday Kindle Paperwhite has arrived and is not named Derek for reasons, most of them Child's. Due to reasons, I am out of active fannish names so this one is Destiel. Screw it, it was this or American Horror Story and I'm not naming my Kindle after a character on a show I have to watch from behind the couch.
3.) Child may or may or not be starting to develop a crush on Pete Wentz. This is new.
I have been a good parent and carefully kept him secluded from emo during his formative years, concentrating his attention on Breaking Benjamin and Skillet and Rise Against and Metallica--guitars broken in fits of mindless violence and sometimes teenage angst rather than from inner turmoil with messages written in tear-smeared eyeliner. Child was already a MySpace poet in the making like, from birth, and while MySpace is deadish, bad poetry never dies. He's already a surly geek who hacks his X-Box and whose clan is filled with inner teenage drama-angst. Like, why stack the freaking deck, you know?
This is really all Mikey Way's fault, let's just put that out there, or at least, my inability to stop reading tumblr about it. Child read over my shoulder, asked for a summary, then suddenly, his playlists are looking suspicious. I'm just saying, what the hell, Child. I introduce your ass to death metal--I cant' even pronounce some of those names in polite company, or around people who can issue federal warrants for persons of interest--and you repay me with pulling my album lists? This isn't happening.
If anyone needs me, I'm going to be failing as a parent somewhere else. At this rate, he's going to be a Republican investment banker or something and I'll never be able to show my face among humanity again.
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