I've been lots of damn kids. Recently too. That damn kid who made the burger wrong. That damn kid who ate ice cream for dinner one night. That damn kid who came home drunk and disorderly, and spent the next day complaining about various hangover-related symptoms. That damn kid who mixed up the orders at the restaurant and put caramel syrup on the apple pie, even though the man who ordered the pie was watching his sugar and didn't want the syrup. So that damned kid ate it after the man sent it back. I've been all these damn kids, and that fact doesn't make me a bad person, doesn't make me a criminal. I'm half inclined to ask what kind of damn kid this lady once was, although she'd have to dig a lot deeper in her memory to find out. Maybe those damn kids are different, but I doubt it. Those damn kids that sit across the street on the porch drinking beer on weekend nights probably aren't any more dangerous than the damn kid who's writing this. I'm not sure whether to be more offended on their behalf or my own. In her defence, they probably call her the batty old lady across the road. Maybe that gives her the right to call them those damn kids.
I wish it didn't have to be this way.
Daydream Believer
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