you spend your whole life in the bathroom and your children grow up outside the door. and one day when you're done taking a shit you come out to discover they are all grown up. your daughter is returning home at 2 am from a kegger, and she says "dad, this is early for me" there is a used condom clinging to her short school-girl skirt but she's so drunk she doesn't notice. all you can do is stare at her soaked and smelling of beer breasts. so young, so perky... so not the daughter you remember having. she didn't have breasts back when you used to carry her on your shoulders at festivals, and take naps together with her tiny body curled on your naked chest, your snoring caressing her into a trance-like sleep.

things were easier then, before you were suddenly struck by the constipation of how the 70's suddenly thrust themselves into the middle of your bland 90's life. a car, 2 kids. one invisible. one so visible she rapes your eyes. and so you sit in the toilet, crying, smoking crack, and vomiting up all your regrets. you know you aren't your fucking kaki's but sometimes you forget. so you cry more because your kakis are stained and last week your car got dented in that crash you had with your wife's backwards ideals about how abortion is going to start world war 3. you children are now higher than your knee.

you didn't ask for this. you stood before the alter, wired like a robot or a cancer patient with all those tubes shoved in your ass and nose. and you said your vows like a bad actor reading a script at an audition. sniffing heroin first so you won't be nervous.

but here she is, the little girl who's pigtails are now chopped into a pink mohawk that you barely notice because her breasts won't stop staring you down. the used menstrual pads in the batrhoom when the toilet wouldn't flush is all you've seen of her for the past decade. "dad, are you pissed?" she asks. you can't look at her, just her beautiful so WRONG mounds of woman-hood. she's not supposed to be a woman. you're still pretty high from the crack, and you wonder if she can smell how disgusting life becomes on your breath. all you manage to utter is "you were conceived in a grave yard!" then you run back to the safety of the bathroom. slamming the door and clinging to the toilet for all it is worth, hide for another decade.