My Dad loves to teach. Medicine. The other day it was pulmonary medicine. Needless to say, I yawned in my head the whole time. And when he asked me to summarize, I obviously messed up.
And it began.
And Mum joined in.
And it expoloded.
And the neighborhood joined in.
Jesus H. Macy.
Does this ever stop?
No. It gets worse. It’s crazy. The way Desi parents react. My parents are a whole different level of Desi. They are more like, nuclear. Mum thinks it’s weird that since an Apple never falls far from the Tree, how am I so different? Dad wonders if I’m having some sort of cerebral short-circut-y disasters. No. I am not.
They think they can cure my aversion to medicine.
Ha. Bloody. Ha.
This thing can’t be cured. Just like the way you can’t find a cure for homosexuality. Because there isn’t one. And me? I’ve been a good kid. I haven’t broken rules. I’ve never done drugs. I just flunked med school a couple times. And my parents say it’s made them social pariahs. Like, really, Mum, Dad?
I guess everything wrong with my Desi parents originates from their false sense of being “elite”. Whatever the fuck that means.
Just leave me alone. I can’t do any better than this.