I was going to write a blog post about how “Inside Out” made me cry because I felt like Joy and never understood sadness for the longest time, but then my very perceptive friend said it all for me (and better). Thanks Kyle.
Today, at lunch, I heard a child crying. My first thought was, “I get you, tiny human thing.”
Typically, I don’t think much of infants. Subtract moisture and they’re plastic dolls. The only difference is one can be used as a blunt object to attack your little sister. And, no, I’m not going to make the joke that the other is a plastic doll. I feel similarly about dogs that fit in pockets.
That’s not a dog. That’s a hacky sack.
The young mammal it-creature was crying because its parents gave it an iPhone upon exiting the birth canal. After having its ass flogged, all it’s seen are headlines like this:
As far as that child knows, everyone is dying. Apparently, Frank Gifford is the bomb at it.
But, in the midst of its weeping, I found that I respected the sentient larva. There it sat, in its own filth…
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