look at you. you think you’re an artist now, because you have your set of mickey mouse paints. (his mom thought he would show it off at school, the box of paints with a smiling mickey mouse on the front. she bought it for him while she was out grocery shopping, and added it to her shopping cart so he could take it to art class.)

your pants are too small. can’t you go buy new ones? (she saw the rip weeks ago and hand-stitched it so her son could look good at school. she was also prolonging the use of the jeans as much as possible. she was sure the stitching would hold, and that no one would notice how high above his ankles they dangled when he sat down.)

where’s your notebook? (her dad bought all of her stationary in bulk from a warehouse. he thought the patterns and cartoon characters whimsically dispersed throughout the pages were nice. also, they would last her all through elementary school. so what if they were different quality than the ones they asked for in her spelling class. a notebook is a notebook)

i’m saddened every time i pull on my monkey shorts to go to bed, because it’s nearly christmas, and it’s far too hot for my fuzzy santa pj pants.

i then wake up to the team of middle aged strangers in my house. noisy with their tools, and sharply sour. i see dusty skin and no real eyes to speak of. they come with their tools while i’m sleeping and they make sounds outside my door.

i walk past them in my shorts as soon as i’m up, and make their day. i consider it passive philanthropy.