My Inner Child Is A Whackjob.

He’s a freaked-out 6-year old who likes to be called Sabrina. *sigh* It’s complicated. Added to that, he’s been pestering me for years to get him breast implants, a tutu, and stilettos. I told you it was complicated. To humour him, I told him he could have pocket money and save up for the implants but he’s an impatient little shit so as soon as he had the money for one implant he had ‘the job’ done. Now he’s saving for the other one.

We’re used to each other, Sabrina and I, and mostly we get along, but he can be a real handful sometimes. “Sometimes” has been visiting us recently.

I don’t know what it is, but Sabrina and Ada Ireland, my friend and collaborator on the next breakout bestseller, abso-fucking-lutely and madly adore each other. Most times, I’m relegated to the role of typist and message-passer. It’s odd to me, because before Ada came along he never expressed any interest in the androgynous type. (Wait until Ada reads that and looks it up; I’m in deep, deep shit.)

So anyway, more than half her emails to me are actually to him, and he just sits there lording it over me, the smug little fucker. But last night he elevated it to a whole new level. I’ve been writing the narration of the new work while Ada’s been working on future scenes and ideas. Yes, exactly. I get to do all the typing while she swans around coffee shops ‘seriously thinking’ about stuff I have to try to make work without us both looking like girlyskirts. Anyway, back to Sabrina.

Avid readers of this blog will know that what my writing lacks in quality is more than made up for in quantity. I’m prolific, to say the least. Embarrassed, more like. I post stuff rapidly to push one more foetid piece of shit off the front page. Last night, after an epic 9,277 word type-fest, I just wanted to go to bed. Want to know what that little shit did? Read on.

PD: “Move over, dude.”

S: “No.”

PD: “Okay, I’ll sleep on the other side, then.”

S: You can’t. That’s Ada’s side.” (Little shit then poked his tongue out at me.)

PD: “Mate, Ada lives on the other side of the world, and she has her own bed.”

S: “I don’t care. This is my side and that’s Ada’s side and you get no side.”

PD: “So, where am I supposed to sleep?”

S: (Points to small rubbish bin, conveniently located in the bathroom.)

PD: “Move over, fuck you.”

S: “I’m telling Ada on you. So ner.”

PD: “Mate, Ada’s on the other side of the world. She can’t do anything.”

S: “She’ll smack you. She’s my friend, not yours.” (Another tongue poke.)

PD: “Ooh! Now I’m really scared. I don’t think her arms are long enough to reach.”

I just know what’s going to happen when he snitches on me to her. He’ll sit there all smug and gloating while she coos at him  and tells him what a dropkick I am. Honestly, the two of them together make me want to heave.

So, I went back into the lounge room and waited until the little fucker fell asleep. He never used to snore but lately he’s started because he says Ada does it. Good God! I hope she doesn’t shit the bed, too! By this time it was that sort of dead late when Zombie Apocalypses usually begin. I crept into the bedroom and looked down at him, the little rascal. I really, really love this little kid of mine, when he’s asleep. He looked like a little angel, there on ‘his’ side of the bed. I picked him up, really gently, and deposited him softly on ‘Ada’s’ side. For a few seconds I just stood there, smiling, and looking at this little kid who’s been with me all my life.

I got into bed, trying not to disturb his sleep. Then, I put my feet on his back and pushed that little fucker off the edge. He makes a particular ‘thud’  that just never gets old. Well, he was up like a shot.

S: “I’m telling Ada!”

PD: “Go ahead.”

S: “I’m running away from home.”

PD: “More bed space for me,” I said, and stretched out so that my hand covered his face. The little shit bit me. “More closet room. No kid farts on my face first thing in the morning. Gee, I’m having trouble seeing the downside to this,” I said, giggling.

S: “Ada’s going to smack you!”

PD: “She won’t know, unless you’re a snitch.”

S: “She’ll know. Ada knows everything. She knows how much trouble you are.”

He actually had a fair point there. She really does seem to know how much trouble I am, or maybe she just always assumes it, so the law of averages works in her favour. I get up to so many shenanigans I lose track, so I just sort of wear it when she belts me about.

PD: “Why don’t you go and live with Ada, then?” I said, thinking a bit of brinkmanship would settle him down.

S: “Can I?” he said, all excited. The traitorous little turd.

PD: “Sure. I can put you in an envelope and send you over to her.”

S: “What if I get lost?”

PD: (under my breath) I’d love it if you would. (out loud) Just ask anyone. Actually, best if you stay away from malls. And schools. And Texas, come to think of it. Look, I’ll ask Ada, okay?”

S: “Yay!”

PD: “Hang about. I said I’d ask her. She might say no.”

S: “H’yeah, right. She loves me! I’m going to see Ada!”

PD: “You might miss me.”

S: “You’re funny.”

So, Sabrina ‘let’ me sleep on ‘his’ side for the few hours left before I had to get up and go to work to make the money to buy the envelope to put him in to get him to Ada. I’m not allowed to sleep on ‘her’ side, and that’s forever, it seems.

I checked my emails before I left for work this morning. As ever, there was one from Ada ‘just catching up on the book ideas’. Right. It went something like this:

Sabrina something something something something something Sabrina. Something something Sabrina. Oh, and while I think of it, Sabrina something something something. I hope you’re taking care of him because he’s so gorgeous and you’re so much trouble. Sabrina something something, dreamed you pushed him off the bed and I slapped you for it, Sabrina, etc, ad nauseam, ad infinitum.

When I got home tonight the little shit was straight at me.

S: “Did you get the envelope?”

PD: “Mate, I’ve been thinking about this. (Pissing myself laughing, more like.) Y’know, Ada might have her own Inner Child. There mightn’t be room for you.”

S: “She (Ada’s Inner Child) can come and live with you, then. Ada likes me better.”

PD: “What if Ada’s Inner Child doesn’t want to live here?”

S: “Then I’d think she had brains and class.”


Ada, there’s a surprise for you in the mail.


3 thoughts on “My Inner Child Is A Whackjob.

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