I am done having to get up and move because you decided that you want to sit where I am sitting.
I am done with moving to the outer most edge of the couch, chair, or bed because you turned into a leech.
My soundtrack of life has turned into, “Move Bitch.” It is on replay … just the chorus, actually. I don’t want to “punch yo lights out.” (Yes. I googled the lyrics to the song because I only know the chorus.) But yeah, I want you to move and get out the way.
Please. Stop rubbing my arm in the same spot, over and over and over again. You may not believe this kid, but I prefer if you don’t play footsies with my thigh. Okay, seriously, you can stop rubbing my boob while you are at it too.
Hey! You cannot be a bull and my fluffy tummy is not muleta that you can charge at repeatedly.
Why is my body, your constant companion? Little dude, here is a duster. Go make yourself useful.