So tonight I took my 12-year-old son to Game Stop so he could buy Super Smash Bros. Ultimate, the game he’s been talking about and talking about and talking about.
He talks about the characters.
He talks about the action.
He talks about the creators.
He talks about the graphics.
He talks about what friends say.
He talks about what friends of friends say.
All the kid has talked about for the past four months has been Super Smash Bros. Ultimate. And that is why I’d like to use this blog entry to say to my parents, Joan and Stanley Pearlman, well … um … I’m really sorry.
Back when I was Emmett’s age, I didn’t know how fucking annoying I must have been. I didn’t realize—all those times I raved about Ricky Nattie’s hands, Bo Jackson’s power, U.L. Washington’s toothpick, J.R. Richard’s velocity, Nolan Ryan’s glare, Patrick Ewing’s dunks, Pearl Washington’s passes, Magic Johnson’s smile, Larry Bird’s resolve, Ken Griffey, Sr.’s Afro—how bored you must have been. I didn’t grasp that “Oh” meant “I don’t give a shit” and “That’s very interesting” meant “I’d rather be listening to the sounds of emus having sex.” I couldn’t have possibly understand the sheer boredom I was subjecting you to.
Mom, Dad—you should have told me Ron Guidry’s ERA was of no importance. You should have reminded me that Wesley Walker’s slant routes put you to sleep. You should have …
Sigh.
The only solace I can take for past misdeeds is the current punishment being subjected to my soul.
I was a bad child.
I am a tortured adult.
