“Hey, sorry to interrupt but I have to get going…”
“Oh, no. Yeah. We ran overtime. But we’re finishing up now, you can come right in.”
“Well…as long as we don’t take too long. I have to go home to take my dog out.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know. It’s late, huh? I’m going to miss my daughter’s bedtime…”
Oh. My. God.
I don’t care about your daughter.
Our meeting was scheduled for almost an hour ago and I was waiting for you while you sat here, legs crossed at the knee, not letting the other person get a word in edgewise, so congratulations you have a daughter, I guess, but I don’t care.
Because I hate you, David. I already hate you. And the fact that you supposedly have a daughter that you can’t be there for because of a job you’re evidently not doing well – the fact my concern for my very real dog is to be equated to or, actually, trumped by your highly theoretical daughter – makes me hate you more.
Now I’m the other person. Congratulations all around today.
You realize your daughter, who apparently can fall asleep without you anyway and is not, I assume, sitting in the dark by herself with crackers scattered on the floor in the meantime, is otherwise a total abstraction to me. An incredible projection of an unbelievable man. She may as well be made of dragon’s breath and unicorn tears, that’s how real she is to me.
Bigfoot’s ennui. Pegasus’ grandma.
Is she real? I see no pictures, but is that a Florence + The Machine poster there on the wall?
How old is she supposed to be? 2, 4, 6, 18? She may as well be 10, 000 BC, that’s how much I care.
Is your daughter a narwhal? I have my suspicions about those too.
Ogopogo’s chauvinism. Pat Sajak. Owlbear.
“Hate”, I know, is a strong word. But trust me. I’m experienced, hating you for me. I know what I’m doing. Others should join me, I am absolutely so right about this.
Not that I speak for The People. I can’t even vouch for your daughter. The People can hate you. How. Ever. They. Want.
“Do you have any more meetings after this? I hope you get home soon. Gee.”
I hope you find better ploys, or invest in more crackers.
Pixie dust and leprechaun farts! A leprechaun farted = that’s your daughter.
For all intents. For all purposes.