Dear Dylan,
I get it, okay? Woe is you. Your mouth hurts, you can't sleep, your daddy done left you, I hear you. We are all entitled to a bad day. If you knew the words I Didn't Ask to Be Born I think you would have better been able to express yourself today. Your misery, however, loses credibility when, after the whiniest day on record, you spend two hours charming a house full of people. You have giggled for me in that way exactly once. Yet the dog of a friend of a friend and his squeaky toy can send you into hysterics. I would not have been surprised to walk into the room to find you doing kegstands or bobbing for teething biscuits in the fondue. I have to say, I almost expected it when I found you lying facedown in a pool of vomit. I know firehouses that take babies no questions asked. You little twit.
Your skeptical mother
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