And yet again it’s column writing time. To me, creating something stupendously creative – like directing a commercial or writing this column – is sort of like giving birth, metaphorically speaking. Not that I would know what it feels like to squeeze an 8 pound mini-me out of my V for Vagina. I am completely uterusless. And unless science makes a gargantic leap and we’re going to live in a technocratic hermaphrodite society anytime soon, I’ll probably never own one. Plus, unlike Forrest Gump’s mother who probably did empty a gazillion boxes of chocolate, I don’t have any children. So basically, I don’t know what the hell I’m writing about. I’m a horrible metaphoricist. But for this column’s sake, let’s stick with the idea.
So, you just parted with something humongously creative out of your imaginary uterus. Hurray! Like a baby, this thing you’ve created is a part of you. It represents who you are and what you stand for. It’s the fruit of your creative loins.
Like a baby, this thing you’ve created is a part of you. It represents who you are and what you stand for
And here’s my problem: I hate my newborns. Can’t stand to look at them. Where they once had the promise of super-cuteness-baby-perfection, all I see now are flaws. Weird shaped heads, funny looking moles. Cross-eyed, ears all sticking out. I’ve created imperfect children. And through my children’s imperfections I am confronted with my own imperfections. It’s all just too painful to behold. So I ignore my babies. I deny these frail creatures the love that they so much need. I am a horrible father.
If god is anything like me… Well, if god is anything like me, he’s bald, sports a Mercury moustache and drives his mom’s Hyundai Atos. If he’s anything more like me, at the end of the sixth day, he’d ran back to heaven, shut the door, closed the blinds, plugged in his PlayStation and would have pretended this whole creating-the-earth-thing never happened (though he probably played a Commodore 64, because I don’t think they had PlayStations in the Early Days). I am a horrible god.
Well, if god is anything like me, he’s bald, sports a Mercury moustache and drives his mom’s Hyundai Atos
“You know, that is a really cute baby you have there!”
Admittedly, I need the approval of others to learn to love my offspring. Preferably, anybody else than my mom. Because, well, she’s my mom (still love you mom, thanks for the car!). And slowly but surely, I see my children for what they are. They may not always be the cutest, smartest or prettiest of em all. They may not all be price winners. And by god, they are flawed. But they’re also a labour of love. And in a way, they’re all beautiful. Even though some of em really are butt-ugly.
So this one is for all my beautiful ugly babies. I’m sorry I neglected you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me the most. I promise to be a better father from now on and love you the second you slip out of my birth canal. Starting with this column right here.
Now where did I leave my PlayStation?