Below is the inner monologue of the baby in the picture on the right. (He’s a cognitively advanced baby.)
It’s really cool how crazy fond my family is of me. They watch me all day like I’m plotting something, and they get out of bed at all kinds of random times of the night because I have to breastfeed and whatnot. (Operating words are have to — it’s not something I want to do any more than you want to get up to pee, it’s just I can’t eat very much at once because I’m all small and stuff).
I try not to wake them too often, but I don’t have much of a concept of night or day yet, and pretty much all I do is lie around and sleep a lot anyway, whether it’s light or dark outside. And I’m colicky as hell. That doesn’t help.
Since my parents made me, they believe everyone in the world wants to see photographs of me … all the time. That’s fine. The flash gets a little annoying, but I respect it. I’d probably want to take a lot of pictures of me too if I had, you know, taken the steps to create me.
To help out, sometimes I will smile when I’m on the verge of tears, kind of like how all those strong women who sing pop country songs say they do.
The other day, this guy they keep calling my Godfather came over and kept making fun of Mom. He said he couldn’t remember the last time she’d posted a picture to the Internet that didn’t include me.
Oh here they come now with that picture-maker thing. Probably because I’m just lying here all cute and stuff on this blank—
…WHOA WHAT THE FUCK?! Mom. Mommy. Dad. Pops. Over here. Is that the Chloe you’re always talking about, that thing to my right? You named that thing Chloe? It doesn’t look like one. Looks more like a Zuul, maybe. She is so, so scary.
And she is looking at me. Staring, actually. Not even a newborn baby’s length away. Why is she this close to me? Do you two not realize the implications of the situation we are in? No? I was cool with it when you guys were carrying me around and she was looking up from a distance, but now we’re on a level playing field and you’re just letting this happen. She looks so scary. And she is still staring at me.
You’re taking pictures? Yep, you’re taking pictures.
Hey Dad, remember that time when your best friend got part of his lip bitten off by a dog when he was trying to eat a chicken wing? And he was nine years old? Well guess what: I’m only a few MONTHS old and that dog is probably thinking about how easily penetrable my skin is.
I bet she’s thinking, “Look at that. Little fleshy meat that is easy to pierce. That thing on the floor is a piece of meat. Masters almost never leave meat on the floor, especially in the living room because lady Master is anal about carpeting, according to man Master.”
Didn’t this thing kill a squirrel once?
And what do you know of her past? You adopted her, right? What if she has some kind of kennel flashback and thinks I’m some dickhead dog that bit her or something? What if she falls asleep and has a dream where she thinks I’m one of those hyenas from that movie with the talking lions and the orangutan with that walking staff that we watched the other day? What if she has a dream wherein she’s running and just clubs me in the side of my head? I mean, I’m a baby. My dome is malleable. Do you not know this?
You two keep making noises that indicate this scenario is adorable. I suppose neither of you have thought, “Oh, Hank is okay, at least until he looks at that dog the wrong way.”
How many photographs of this moment do you need? If you keep moving around, flashing lights in this beast’s face she could snap and I’d be the first and only casualty. I’m your first-born. Shouldn’t you be a little bit more careful with me? If I get mauled and somehow miraculously live through it, you’re going to have to tell people what you did. And if you post any more of those pictures of me on Facebook postmortem, the only people who will click the “like” button will do so out of sympathy. And deep down, you’ll know it.
HOLY SHIT IT JUST LICKED ME. And you’re both laughing. Mom, quit golf clapping. Think back to earlier this morning, when you let this Chloe character outside. She took a shit, and then proceeded to turn around and bury her nose right in it. And remember last night when Dad — the goddamn brain trust over here — fed her lasagna and she puked all over the floor? Then she ate it?
How much do you two know about babies’ immunity systems?
I can’t get away from it. It continues to lick my face. This is such bullshit. I can’t believe you just said “Awww look! They like each other.” Mom. Come on. This is all clearly a ploy. She’s either trying to get me sick with her stupid rancid dog breath, or she’s trying to lull you into a false sense of security, where you let us play together and stuff until one day you become so complacent that Chloe kills me, somehow getting a meal and becoming your only love again.
She will help you through your grief, knowing all along she is the cause of it.
I bet she makes it look like an accident.
Mom, no! Don’t tell me to look at this picture. I can’t. I have to keep her locked in a stare down. I lose the upper hand and I’m good as d—
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Does that Facebook caption say “Best Buddies?!
If I make it to an age where I can social network without this dog killing me first, I am going to refuse to accept your friend requests.
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