Every time I open my mouth, I regret doing so.
Apparently, I have no communication skills.
All the money spent by my parents on the finest schools, a sheer waste. If they were still alive, I would’ve broken the news to them gently.
My present family scoffs at my attempts at conversation. My words bring out the best in their hideous natures. Their contempt well expressed through their words.
‘I’ve never heard such rubbish in my life.’
The first contender to silence me, my irritable wife.
I must have dumped enough rubbish on her to bury her several miles deep. Yet her animosity finds its way through the rotting trash, calling me out on its stink and hazardous nature.
‘You don’t get it and you never will.’
The second challenger, my forever distraught teenaged daughter.
Her words confuse me, a perfect reason to take an oath of silence. What was I supposed to get and supposedly will never manage to obtain in the future? Is it the understanding of her ever-changing feelings? Who knows?
‘Wahh! Waah! Waaahhhh!’
Last but not the least, my dispirited four-year-old son.
The boy can barely manage to poop on his own but is a master of tears and melancholic drama. No sooner do I address him, his face attains a red tinge, his cries leaving me quiet, bewildered. He takes after his mother.
I resolve to rid the bitter taste in my mouth.
My mouth, after all, is the problem.
I adopt a new mode of exchange. A safer, harmless language.
One word replaces my entire vocabulary. If we had a cat, I’m sure it would’ve been loved.
I’m a man of lesser words now, precisely only one.
My family thinks I’m crazy. I respond from the depths of my heart.
‘MEOW, MEOW, MEOW’.
He’s a terrible dancer. Can’t dance to save his life. But when he finds his perfect partner, Two Left Feet don’t seem so bad.