bullshit

My little brother just told me that sometimes, he likes it better on the floor. You know, I don’t know what or why this is, but we think almost the same things exactly a few days apart. I forget he’s only eleven-hasn’t gone through middle school or high school yet, but he just told me that, really, sometimes he likes it better just on the floor. And fuck. Even though I wrote it some days ago, I had to agree verbally. That yeah, I know what this 11 year old kid means. Sometimes, I can look at him and feel like his mom. Not my mom to him, of course. Most times, she can’t understand his outburts. She really can’t. When something is obviously wrong with him emotionally, she can’t deal with it. Or won’t. Or thinks he’s just being cranky and tired and needs a nap so she, yells, and sends him to his room to sleep. Naturally. I go in there and actually see what the deal is because… well, I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here. I just, really, in the least bit of the corniest way love my little brother. You know, I tried explaining to my mom why my little brother “ruined christmas” and cried that day but she still didn’t understand. I never. ever. want to forget what it’s like being a kid. I wish I could have written this more poetically but you know, it simply wouldn’t have been right somehow. I’d have to sit and think about the damn words I’d use. edit it. go back. blah blah, and probably would have never typed any of this. but whoever is reading this, think of any poetic way you can put this little peice of dumb unorganized probably mispelled paragraph in your head and enjoy it somehow. My little brother, man. Seriously.