Don’t you just want your thirteen year old daughter to say ” OK Dad, I understand what you’re saying and whereas I disagree in principle, I respect your views “, don’t cha? And don’t cha think your compliant daughter looks good with me, or can’t you see that’s its compliant me that looks shit with my daughter. The generation game arrived screaming like a bat of a hell into our oasis of calm, and things will never be the same again.
I’ve been holding out you see. Yeah, hoping that our musical interests might continue to overlap, that she might still see my quirkiness as something different but nice to have, that we might walk across the fucking road together, that she might like to be seen in public with me once a year. But no, no fucking way and last night’s rant when I explained that she is mistaking me for some other sad sack of shit father from one her coven of friends, well the rant fell on deaf ears and I’m consigned to a drooling slobbering oblivion, until I’m rolled out on her wedding day to say something moderately interesting, but ultimately embarrassing.
It’s not’s going to work Sniffle. It needs a different context Sniffle. She needs her space Sniffle. Get fucking real Sniffle and figure out that you’re dead in her eyes, or might as well be, that you’re and impediment to her assault on womanhood. You’re a nasty resource provider to be tolerated and tapped regularly and then hidden away under the stairs. No level exists where you can communicate meaningfully. The gap between the free style Hip Hop artiste formally known as daughter and sad sack of shit you, cannot and will not be breached.
So, Sniffle, the relationship is dead RIP, but call back in five years time and we might have something meaningful to say to you, but for the moment fuck off lively.