I try to keep an open mind. I’m always trying new experiences. I’ll play with anything I can find in whatever cabinets I can open. I’ll stick just about any object in my mouth. But despite my parents’ insistence that I should enjoy it, I find bathtime a rather miserable affair.
What’s the least fun liquid to drink? That’s right: water, the tasteless entity that has no reason to exist when there are such things as fruit juice. And instead of drinking this water, I am placed into it. It’s bizarre.
And my parents act like this is fun time, but if I actually try to have fun by doing things such as splashing the water at them, I get discouraged. Because this is not fun time. That’s a lie. They’re not giving me a bath for me. They’re giving me a bath for them.
“Oh, you’re dirty,” they say—like this is something I care about. I like being caked in dirt and dried ketchup. That’s when I’m at my most comfortable. But my parents are slaves to soulless aesthetics. It’s how I look on the surface that’s important to them, so into the bath I go. And then there’s the greatest indignity—water dumped over my head. And afterward, my parents seem so pleased with their work when they could have just let me be in my filth and happiness.
I rate bathtime one star, though I wish I knew of some concept lower than one to rate it.
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