Our knuckles slam into each other as we both reach for the volume button on the car radio when Pumped Up Kicks comes on with its catchy melody and clever homicidal chorus.
“Mom, you are too old to like that song,” said the twelve-year-old middle schooler who has never experienced social alienation a day in his life.
“I like it. It sums up high school for me,” said his kindhearted, gentle mother with a delicate smile.
“Psycho! My mom is a psycho. That song is about killing people. Did you want to kill people?”
“Of course not. No. Absolutely not. Well, not exactly….probably not. At least not in real life…maybe in my head. You know what… it is complicated. Fantasies of homicide and suicide fill the teenage experience. Then you grow up and those sick fantasies fade away and are replaced by a whole another slew of dreams and hopes that ultimately go unfilled until you eventually die unpublished, broke and alone.”
“You are a terrible mother. Do you ever listen to yourself? That is not something a good mother would say.”
“Son, you are a bright kid with a bright future ahead of you. Do not kill yourself or others. Better?”
“See you are the reason, I never have friends come over. You have serious problems.”
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