Dear Mr. Baby:
A number of things have been said, by yours truly, that could be construed as varying degrees of: exaggerations, distortions, or outright lies. Now, I know I claim to place a premium on truth, but I also place a premium on things like quiet. In the name of said rare and illustrious quiet, I have perhaps mislead you on a number of occasions. As such, for a time when you can read, and perhaps better understand the value of tranquility, there are some retractions to be made:
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The brown stuff in Fred's ears is yeast, and not related to anyone yelling inside the house.
There are no bears in the grocery store, and even if there were, they would not be sleeping behind the cans. No danger of waking them up, you see.
There's no hedgehog in your ear, and the thermometer is not checking in on him.
Your tricycle doesn't need to take a break or it will fly away. It's an inanimate object. I just hate it.
Fred has never told me anything. He's a dog. I put peanut butter on my fingers to make it look like he is telling me a secret, because it has a pleasant incidental effect of everyone else shutting the hell up to try and hear what he's saying.
There's no such thing as a crackermonster. I just get fucking sick of making meals that you toss on the floor because you ate 152 saltine crackers with honey on them.
Five more minutes is actually much, much longer than that.
Netflix does not break down nearly as often as it seems. In fact, they're a pretty solid site and rarely have problems of any kind. (But let me tell you that I am doing you a huge favor by boycotting My Little Pony, a show, it would appear, designed specifically for grooming girls into materialistic, bitchy little cunts.)
I can hear you when I am using the computer in the kitchen. There is no magic wall.
END
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Sure, you judge me now. Just like I judged my uncle Larry for telling me that a tree would sprout from my stomach if I ate a cherry seed. Just like I judged all the other parents, once, when I heard them saying this and that. Horrific, I would say to myself. Why those tots are just tots. But screw everyone who has an opinion about two-year olds who does not actually have one, right now, in their house, making the most fucking excruciating sound ever known to man from atop a table because he can't find the pants he just took off because of something to do with raisins, and now his feet are cold, and he wants his Emily truck, and he can do it himself, and it isn't the red one, and he wants some juice, and he wants his other red car, and every fucking problem he has is something he did to his own damn self.
And Mr. Baby, someday, you will have a shrunken, belligerent mental patient-gnome screaming in your kitchen, and you will lie, too. You will lie and lie and lie.
