You Were Born Inside Your Head

Chapter 5

The room remained the same, a sad, beige cage that was my nursery. Time had apparently skipped ahead like it had better things to do than stay with me in this shithole. I stared up at the ceiling, watching the dust particles dance in the stale air.

God I need to leave this hell before I attempt murder.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and my contempt for this existence grew with every passing moment. Ging stumbled through his fatherly duties like a drunk trying to assemble furniture from IKEA. He'd feed us, change us, and then pass out on the floor, only to wake up and do it all over again.

Gon's cries had become the soundtrack to my life, a never-ending symphony of despair that I couldn't escape, no matter how much I slept. And when I wasn't sleeping, I was plotting my escape from this furry hellhole. But how does one escape when you're trapped in a body that can't even sit up without toppling over like a bowling pin in a tornado?

God no wonder Ging abandoned you.

Gon's wails were like nails on a chalkboard, a never-ending reminder of the misery that was my new life. Every cry, every whine, was a dagger to my already shattered sanity. It was like someone had turned the volume on my existence to eleven and thrown the remote into a black hole.

I couldn't blame Ging for bailing on this shitshow.

Every day, I lay there, listening to Gon's cries, and every day, I fantasized about a world where babies came with mute buttons.

But amidst the relentless wailing, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for Ging. The poor guy was trying, in his own admittedly pathetic way, to be a father. But let's face it, if you can't even keep a plant alive, raising a couple of squawking meatloafs is like trying to juggle chainsaws while riding a unicycle.

He'd come in every day, looking more and more like a raccoon with those dark circles under his eyes. He'd feed us, burp us, and then collapse onto the floor with a thud that would make you think he'd just run a marathon. It was a routine that would make even the most stoic of office workers weep with boredom.

But what was really alarming was the stack of baby care books that grew next to him like a sad, pathetic library of regret. Each one looked more worn out than the last, pages dog-eared and sticky notes hanging out like tiny yellow flags of surrender.

The titles of the first one I could make out was "Babies for Dummies," which was basically the universe's way of saying, "You're screwed, kid." It was like watching someone try to read the manual for a spaceship while hurtling through space without a spacesuit.

But hey, I couldn't really blame the guy. If I had to deal with the constant shrieks of a baby that sounds like it's being subjected to a never-ending loop of nails on a chalkboard, I'd probably need a PhD in baby whispering too. The books grew more and more complex as the weeks went on. "Advanced Infant Psychology" and "The Art of Not Losing Your Mind When Dealing with Twin Terrors" were two that stood out.

The poor sap was clearly in over his head, but I had to admit, there was something oddly endearing about his determination. Like watching a squirrel try to crack a nut with a rock, you just can't help but root for the little guy.

Ging had gone from a one-man book club to a full-blown literary jungle gym of baby care knowledge. The books surrounding him grew in complexity faster than my ability to get my tiny fingers to pack a punch. "The Complete Guide to Not Screwing Up Your Kids" and "101 Ways to Make a Baby Stop Crying" were now buried under "Neuroscience for Newborns" and "Quantum Parenting: Raising Twins in Parallel Universes."

Which, wtf is that title.

The sight was both tragic and hilarious, like watching someone juggle flaming swords while reciting Shakespeare. It was clear that Ging was trying to outsmart the universe by sheer force of will and book knowledge. But let's face it, we were all just meat puppets in a furry's twisted play, and no amount of reading was going to change that.