Dad, let me stop
you right there. I know what you’re about to say. No texting at the table, your
favorite arbitrary rule. But let me show you something, dad. You see these
medals around my neck? Four of ‘em, all bright shining gold. Here, listen to
this. Listen to the sound it makes when I tap these things together, lean in
close and listen up.
Fuck. You. Fuck. You. Fuck. You. Fuck. You.
Mom, mom you
just chill out. Eat your soup, I’m talking to dad. This doesn’t concern you.
No, I will talk
to her that way. I’ll talk to either of you however I want. Because these
medals, they do more than mark me as a world class athlete. I am one, there’s
no denying that, but these are my fuck
you tickets, dad. These medals mean I went to the fucking Olympics—which barely
fucking anyone gets to do—and that I fucking dominated. I won every single
event I entered. And that means I do what the fuck I want, when the fuck I
want. And you two, you can either get onboard with that or you can get left in
my wake, much as my competitors were last summer.
Look, I don’t
mean to be a dick about this. Really. You and mom, both of you have been
really, really supportive. And I’m sure that, from your perspective, you’ve
made sacrifices so that I could achieve this level of success. But maybe it’s
time we take stock, now that we’re on the other side, and acknowledge that those
sacrifices you’re so proud to have made don’t ultimately mean shit. What, you
had to drive me to practice a lot? Boo-hoo. I had to swim mile after mile while
you did the fucking crossword in the car. You had to shell out for travel? I
haven’t had a conversation that wasn’t about swimming since I was eight years
old.
So I’m going to
go ahead and send this text. You can stop eating until I’m done if you want,
just hang there slackjawed and starring if that’s what you want to do. Just
remember to breath through your nose. I’m doing a photo shoot for Wheaties in
the morning, I can’t be up all night waiting in the ER because your ass asphyxiated.
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