Dear Babies

Dear Babies, 

You make me sick. You don’t do anything yourselves! You can’t even perform the most basic, simple functions! You just sit there and expect everyone else around you to cater to your every need. Listen here, babies: you know what I take with me on the subway? I take my handbag and a book. Occasionally an iced coffee. What do *you* take? Well, technically you don’t take anything because you have your man-servant tote all your shit around for you! You insist on being pushed around in your own little rickshaw like you’re some kind of nobility. Why not just have four shirtless servants of Pharaoh hoist your platform on their shoulders while a white tiger clears a path before you, announcing your arrival? Doesn’t that sound nice, babies?

In addition to this jigsaw-puzzle rickshaw that pinches his fingers when your manservant tries to fold it up, you bring a change of clothes. In case, like, what, you decide to brunch with the queen and your lounging onesie doesn’t fit the restaurant décor? Come on, who are you, Cher?

And Lord forbid you spend a moment hungry while out of your palace, babies. You absolutely have to bring snacks. Not just any snacks – bodily fluids from another living human! How are you *not* like a vampire? And of course the entertainment must accompany you (aside from your manservant, whom is also expected to perform the duties of a jester). You must bring your favorite toys – or rather reasons to excuse yourself from socializing with us urchins (so sorry to be using your sidewalk, sire). You are totally rude, babies. You either ignore us completely or you stare at us with this big look on your face like we’re some kind of anomaly. Way to prey on our insecurities, jerks! Every little matter that doesn’t go exactly your way is the worst moment of your life. The sun is in your eyes or you’ve been denied an item to play with (such as a knife or pack of cigarettes) and you scream as if it’s the end of the world! Just wait, babies. Just wait until heartbreak. Wait until bankruptcy. Pregnancy. Your Sidewalk-Escalade takes up so much room on the train that I have to stand in my heels from Brooklyn to Mid-town. This wheeled throne of yours blocks up the sidewalk so I have no choice but to risk my life walking in the street or be late to work. You do nothing for my community and nothing for society, yet when I’m introduced to one of you little buttheads I’m expected to gush and swoon as though you invented vodka. Well, babies, I’m tired of it. I’m tired of “understanding” when you throw chicken nuggets in my hair or when you spit at me or scream at the top of your lungs in a store. So, this is your warning: I’ll punch a baby. Oh, I’ll do it. Now go wipe your mouths, already. 

 Sincerely, Everyone