We’ve reached the point where the bickering has become its own language, like an ether.
It’s like a form of Yiddish, a language that you hear but don’t really recognize.
After being confined as a family in multiple forms of planes, trains, and automobiles over the last several weeks, one begins to experience it as if in a fuge state, somewhere in the transition from the absurd to the sublime.
Occasionally, in a trance-like state of avoidance something suddenly will snap you back into reality, perhaps a truck hurdling toward you, a punch being thrown, or in yesterday’s case, Julie yelling, “stop! take your hands off his penis!”…
This is a true story.
(In a case of meta-bickering, the children were bickering as I was writing this.)
