What to Worry About

There are many things that bellow for one's attention. It's hard to prioritize; you make the attempt, but each of them are little children and have no concept of non-self, nor do they have any respect for whether or not you're drunk yet. These adamant, sticky-faced worries don't wait for you to finish your thought or drive in peace or poop. Our worries are the pre-schoolers of human emotions. Any of those who've experienced the overwhelming joyish happiness/unabidable profound suckage of raising a child can relate. Or perhaps it's me. I've been told a number of times that I'm more than a wee bit sensitive, which is a concern that comes back to me, like the burped-up taste of an omelet filled with slightly rancid meat (oh yeah, I wrote that metaphor. On purpose and everything. You're welcome.)

I can write, right? It's a panacea, but like anyone who's managed to come through the pre-school years alive, I have other stuff to do. It drives me mad. No, it makes me mad- that's more accurate. It doesn't make me spitting mad, because of the germs that would spread, but it does make me mad. I'm busy, I tell the wee worry that's looking up at me that quarter-second, but it just stands there with it's little round face and its filthy hair and the cat that it is miraculously and dangerously holding by its' tail (I have no idea what the irate cat represents, psyche-wise: shattered dreams? Fear of mortality? Rage at the generally exorbitant price of things?) So I employ my little-kid strategies:

Me: I was in the middle of something. When you want to say something, you should wait for a pause in the conv-

Worry Kid: I have this cat!
   
        Irate Cat twists into ball of spinning danger-claws.

Worry Kid (con't): It made me bleed! It made me bleed! IT MADE ME-

Me: I see that there, yeah. That's a boo-boo, huh? I think you should hold up your leg.

Worry Kid: Then I would have to put down Angel, and I DON'T WANT TO PUT DOWN THE CAT. I. WON'T. PUT. DOWN. THE. CAT!

      Irate Cat Named Angel suddenly clamps all four paws onto Worry Kid 2, who just walked up.

Me: Wow! That's just a- cat on your face, huh? Is that a cat on your face? Wow. Let's just get Angel-

Worry Kid: (hysterical) IWON'TPUTDOWNTHECATIWON'TPUTHIMDOWNSOYOUHAVETOPAYATTENTIONTOMECUZOFANGELCAT-

Worry Kid 2: (muffled under-cat voice) If you don't get this cat off my face I will tell Super -Ego that you didn't take the cat off my face, because you are bad. A very bad growd-up, very bad!

Me: Ha-ha! You're a smarty, aren't you? This reminds me of a song- why don't you two just listen and maybe Angel will come off your face, because- uh- it is a song that my Mee-Maw sang to me, and it came from--Turzistan, or something, where they have terrible great big face-cats that they had to sing off the faces of their friends all the time.

      Worry Kid and Worry Kid 2 grow silent and still. Angel begins to pull claws from Worry Kid 2's forehead and Worry Kid 2 doesn't make a sound, which becomes creepy very fast.

      A silence. Finally Worry Kid 2 whispers-

Worry Kid 2: You lied about the cat-face song. You never had a Mee-Maw, ever. There is going to be so much trouble! You're in the trouble soup!

Me: I could kill you both.

      Worry Kid and Worry Kid 2 dance out of reach. Angel perches on Worry Kid's left shoulder.

Worry Kids: No you cant' no you can't- we're just representations and representations don't get caught, we just change into Worry Pets, la-la-la...

Me: (lifts vodka bottle; guzzling sounds)

FIN.

I'm seeing that kind of as a Sondheim/Coppolla/Tarantino joint venture. And hey, thanks for your time- I'll just leave the script right here. Yeah, I have to get back home- I have all kinds of other things to worry about today.


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