What is this? she asks in her best disaffected Christian Slater voice as she points to something on my phone.
I don’t know what that is, I say, refusing to make eye contact with her or with my phone, the traitor.
Is this supposed to be your happy music? Because it sounds pretty sad to me and by sad, I mean, really, really, really bad.
Thanks a lot, I blurt out like a child, upset that my own child has basically just called me out for being uber-pathetic.
Is this one of those songs that you downloaded when you were drunk because it reminded you of a magical moment in your life and now you regret it? she asks as she eyes me like she’s goddamn Inspector Clouseau, but without all the awkward bumbling.
I have no idea what you’re talking about!
Thank you, she says. You have just answered my questioned. God, I hope I never get old.
In my mind, the 11-year-old takes a running start and hops on the Slip ‘N Slide to hell and stays there for a good while.