The thing about living with a never ending power supply of a man is that life is never boring.
When you wake up, your ratty ass excuse of a kitchen is on fire; he tried to make toast.
When you put it out, he whines and kicks his leg like a fussy baby. You ignore him, and drop some crackers on his plate.
“Roadie Roadie Roadie!” He says in that easily, annoying voice of his. He shoves the stack of crackers immediately in his mouth. “Les go out!”
You grunt. He elaborated.
“Out! Let’s go out! To the park!”
Another grunt. He lets out a happy noise, like a squeal, except squeals are cute and he isn’t.
You get ready to go to the park.
Going to the park takes about an hour.
He can’t find his good shirt so he settles on no shirt.
You yell him he can’t do that.
You get in a fifteen minute scream g match about how it’s “his life” and he can “dress how he wants!”
He steals one of your too big t-shirts. He’s swimming in it.
He moves around so much, getting his prosthetic on is a trick. He’s so squirly. You have to hold him down, and he makes an exaggerated noise, like you’re fucking him.
You hit him upside the head, and he laughs.
When you finally get read to go, a bomb goes off in your bedroom.
“Oops,” He says, as you watch flames lick at the windows. “Sorry about that. Forgot.”
You decide it’s just best to go to the park and leave that problem for another day. Place was shit anyways.
When you get to the park the sky is clear and the sun is sunny and you prop yourself under a small tree that barely covers your big body.
You watch your junk man run around like an uncontrollable toddler. Which is. Fairly accurate, all things considered.
When he finally wares out, he slumps his way over to you, and drop himself in your lap.
He lets out a whine about how thirsty he is.
You pour some water straight into his mouth, from the water bottle you were smart enough to pack.
He grins up at you dopely, all bad teeth.
“I love ya, Roadie,” He says, in that sleepy, gross, nasely voice of his.
You love him too.