I'm living with a monster. She is three feet tall and has hair like an eighties Pat Cash because I'm not allowed to brush it. But she has none of his other qualities. The monster would never win a tennis match. She is more likely to chase her opponent with her racket and then suddenly breakdown because the racket she's using is the wrong colour.
While I was writing this post, the monster unrolled a double roll of toilet paper, tore it into strips then screamed about how devastated she was that she couldn't put it back together. She then coloured her hands in green texta and proceeded to have an identity crisis, because she didn't like herself 'this way.'
"Which way?" I asked.
"Green." She whined.
I bit my tongue from saying, 'considering you're a monster, I think green suits you rather well.'
Writing has become increasingly difficult because I am constantly assaulted with end of the world scenarios like 'the block of cheese is too big' and 'the sticky tape isn't sticky anymore.' I have never been so tempted to hold someone's lips together to stop them from making noise. Because the monster is not talking or singing she is making noise. A incomprehensible racket that is uninterested in any audience participation.
Eek! Right now the monster is eyeing me suspiciously, her green texta-tinged lips set in a hard line. I better go!!
Yep, I'm living with a three year old.