You're Adopted

You’re 42 years old today, so I thought it was time for you to know. Erm, happy birthday. Well, no beating around the bush. You’re adopted. We don’t even know if today is your birthday. But who can be sure of those things anyway? We could all be lied to and not know any different. As long as it’s consistent. Anyway, you’re adopted, and your mother and I discussed it, and we thought it was time for you to know. You are old enough now, being 42, and you should know where you came from. Well, we don’t really know that either. You see, we didn’t go through any of those fancy adoption agencies or scout out a knocked-up teenager or anything. We found you in a dumpster. I’m sorry to tell you that. I know it’s harsh to hear you were abandoned. I am sorry. But we took you in and raised you as our own, as our very own. You were so small and helpless with those big brown eyes and… Anyway, like I said, as our very own. You can’t say that we ever treated you any different just because you didn’t come out of the same uterus as the other kids. Except for chaining you in the basement. We only did that a few times. And making you sleep on the floor. Our biological kids came first in that respect, and we couldn’t afford another bed. But besides that.

What? What are you…? Are you going to call Child Protection Services? What? After all we’ve…Ungrateful. Go ahead! Tear through that phone book. Rip it to shreds. Rip it! You’ll never find it. You know why? You know why? Because you can't read! We never sent you to school like our other kids, our biological kids. What? Still can’t find it? They wouldn’t care anyway. They wouldn’t care. You know why? Because you’re not a child! You’re 42 years old. Get over it.

Speaking of, if you want to stay living under our roof, it’s time you started acting your age. Doing for yourself. Basic things like bathing and making your own dinner. Is that too much to ask? We’ve been doing for you for six years now. Six years! You’re 42; we’re not asking much. But we are asking for you to help out. You’re cleaning up that mess by the way.

Anyway, here’s your present. Your favorite, or at least the only brand we’ve ever bought but you seem to like it. So, um, here’s your Milk Bone. Happy birthday. No. No, it’s fine about the phone book. Aw, I love you, too. Let’s go pee on the neighbor’s mailbox.

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