The Studly Seven

I usually reserve the nostalgic 'talk about life' posts for July but I skipped this year because as Biscuits told you, I've been on radio silence.

The unicorns have been displeased, to say the least, at my attitude lately.  They said, and they looked it up and everything, that I have been a "cantankerous old blowhard that has disconnected himself with the rest of society and is content to live a life in solitude."  As proud as I was that they were able to so eloquently deliver that speech I was also infuriated that they used the internet outside of the allotted fifteen minutes I give them each week.  If I don't set a strict limit they'll just keep facetiming randoms from Scotland because they think it's absolutely hilarious that they're the national animal of Scotland.  I'm not kidding.  That's real.

But they're also right.  I have been cantankerous.  As far as disconnect goes...well...they wouldn't be the first to accuse me of that.  All of that aside though, they do deserve better.  Especially Biscuits...

When Biscuits was born, a rainbow formed in the sky, per usual with every unicorn birth.  Unfortunately his mother passed away soon after giving birth and his biological father was never in the picture and that left the little unicolt in my vastly unprepared hands.  I mean that literally.  I should have worn gloves because he was covered in this weird goo.  When he opened his eyes the first living being he saw was me and thus began a daily struggle to become a single parent to a mythical horse with a horn in it's head.

It wasn't pretty in the beginning.  Biscuits had a depth perception problem for the first few months or so and basically every wall in the house had a hole in it.  He also had a big proclivity for crapping.  He crapped so much that I should have opened my own bakery.  I should probably explain that unicorns crap cupcakes.  They still smell like shit though.

When it came time to mold Biscuits into the image that I wished for myself by pushing him into contact sports he looked me dead in the eye and said, "No, Dad, I want to be a writer."  My heart sank.  A writer?!  Nobody has ever accomplished anything by writing.  Writing sucks because it requires a partner.  You need somebody to read it.  Without anybody reading it, it just becomes words in the air...or the internet, lodged between weird tentacle porn and cheap hotel fares.  As much as I tried to deflect Biscuits on his fruitless life path...the boy continued on.  Despite the hooves he's somehow managed to overcome and be able to use keyboards quite effectively.  It probably has something to do with the magic powers that they're born with.

He's entered several writing competitions over the years and has never come close to winning.  Most of his entries are ramblings on rainbows and where to eat the best grass and how to accessorize head wear with a large spiral growth coming out of your head and the people don't seem to really connect with that.  But there he sits at the computer, mashing away with his hooves, and smiling the whole time.  People can be quite rude and I feel the need to protect him but he won't let me stop him.  I guess...I'm proud.  His resilience against such odds is inspiring.  He makes me want to be a better person.

Like the unicorns said, I've been cantankerous.  I really don't have a reason other than...I'm over it.  It.  Everything.  And then I look at Biscuits and see him just devastating the keyboard on the computer with his hooves, writing complete nonsense about stuff no real person cares about, and yet he just keeps mashing away.  It's inspiring.

Tomorrow is Biscuits' seventh birthday.  I think I'm going to take him to Key West to let him piss on the tree that Hemingway used to piss on.  He deserves it.  What better way to celebrate a birthday than honoring a piss monument from one of the greatest cantankerous writer's of all-time?





Happy seven years, Biscuits, happy seven years Studly Pastures, and happy seven years kids for still reading this nonsense that I just mash away at the keyboard.