Saturday, 29 September 2018

THE SECRET DIARY OF A 3 YEAR OLD

At the park.
I drop my ice cream.
Start crying. 
Pick it up.
Lick it.
Get gravel in mouth.
Cry more.
Drop ice cream again.
Start screaming.
Try to pick it up again.
Some dog runs over.
He wolfs it down.
I’m inconsolable.
The world is a bastard.
Everyone in it is a bastard.
But this dog is a mega-bastard.
Dog gets ice cream headache.
I laugh at the prick.
Justice is sweet.
But dog hears me laughing.
Stops dead.
Slowly turns his head towards me.
Try to hide my glee.
But he catches me smirking.
I stop smirking.
Dog moves closer.
Tilting his head.
With fire in his eyes.
I panic and start whistling while checking my watch.
Acting all inconspicuous.
But I don’t wear a watch.
And I can’t whistle.
So the dog is onto me.
He starts growling.
Baring his teeth.
And inching still closer.
I shit myself.
Only metaphorically speaking.
If you don’t count the poo that I did.
In my shorts.
That dropped onto the gravel.
Like an anal grenade.
Forcing the dog to retreat.
Take that you foul beast!
Don’t mess with a toddler.
Who’s had a big lunch.
And isn’t potty trained.
Mummy cleans me.
And changes me.
Then buys me a new ice cream.
And everything is forgotten.
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