My Dad is a Two-Year-Old

My dad is the oldest in my immediate family, but he acts like the youngest. He does not know how to clean, cook, or take care of himself. He does not know how to chew with his mouth closed, pick up his own trash, or cover his mouth when he coughs. He just runs around the house rampant, destroying everything in sight. If I find a popsicle stick stuck to the couch or open the fridge to an egg that rolls out and cracks on the floor, I know it is my dad behind this. The few times he has tried to cook, he has melted a plastic plate in the oven, melted a plastic bowl on the stove, and always left a huge mess for someone else to clean up. Worst of all, he is literally incapable of learning and changing, and he can never find the wrong in anything he does. Yet since my parents split while I was still a baby, I have lived with my father.

Because of this, it always amazes me that I am alive. I have always been told that raising a child is incredibly difficult. My dad proves that statement is complete bullshit. If it was difficult, I would be dead. Yes, it sure was costly for him, since he had to have a bigger house, pay for food, and such, but it sure as hell did not take a whole lot of effort.  He taught me nothing beyond to fend for myself. I am still not even sure if I am brushing my teeth correctly. When I see someone brushing their teeth on tv, I stop what I am doing and pay close attention. It always seems different than how I do it, but my imitations never seem adequate, so I just go back to how I taught myself to do it. In retrospect, maybe raising a child correctly (whatever that may be) does take a lot of effort. But keeping a child alive must be ridiculously easy.

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