The horrors of parenting, or stupid fucking white people

I used to take the boy, my son, to the playground but it became unspeakably obscene. White people—middle class white people—think that the miracle of childbirth should be a source of endless reflection, appreciation, and expression. It's all they talk about when they're together. Some 42 year old woman—because that's who has kids these days—the weight of self deprivation sitting on her face like a goddamn elephant, hate for her child bubbling just inches from the surface, starts babbling to me: "Chloe (all the kids these days have fruitcake names, including my own: all the girls are either Chloe, Zoe, or Sadie; all the boys are Max, Miles, or Sebastian) just couldn't sleep last night, the poor little baby." My usual reply: "Have you tried blowing bong hits, you know, in her crib?" She laughs at this—as if I were kidding! Another parent pipes in: "Max had that problem. So now he sleeps with us." Oh, man, that's just awful. What's wrong with these people? They are incapable of discussing anything other than their children. "Zoe loves to read. She loves it. Oh, oh, wait, ZOE, GIVE THAT BACK, Wait, I'll be back." Lucky me, I think, as she darts across the playground to stop her precious Zoe from beating little Max to death.

As all these demented parents prattle on, they speak as though they were in love with this horror that their lives have become when it's clear all they want to do is kill their kid or run far, far, far away. White people think kids are just such a goddamn miracle they can't shut the fuck up about it; and yet they are being slowly but surely killed by these little miracles. Try talking about a movie, a book, sex, art—anything—and they simply can't do it. The playground proffers one ghastly experience after another.