'I hate my son.'
Karen Hirst had typed this into google for the first time when her son was about 6. He'd come home from school after being told off for staring at a senior member of staff's ass. This was in a long list of ass staring events. Karen had wanted to cry. She was a nice woman. Her husband was a nice man. Why couldn't they have brought up a respectful boy between them? What 6 year old boy is into asses anyway, she had to ask herself, leading to another long, in depth google search.
She hadn't known what to expect when she'd first typed those 4 words into the search engine - words that seemed so hateful and evil but as the years passed seemed more and more deserved. What came up did surprise her (huh somebody had written a whole book about what a twat their son was. That's dedication.)
But also how many forums existed purely for the purpose of old women to bitch about their lazy, self absorbed sons.
Karen found it very therapeutic as she signed up immediately with the eye catching 'Simonisashit69.' The forum lead her to meet a variety of people with a wide range of shocking stories. She talked to mums who's sons had bummed the family cat (not bob no!) and burned their siblings alive but also women who's sons hadn't revised enough for a test, whom she wanted to slap for if Simon even revised for a minute it would be an achievement. For every single thing her blasted goddamn son did over the years, she'd just let it out to a bunch of women she'd never meet.
She told them everything. About how it was her fault really. Her and Craig had been massive hippies. All into vegetarianism, saving the planet and all that stuff she now realised was whiny bollocks. Of course they wanted to adopt a kid. They couldn't just have a kid with their own non fucked up genes. Oh no. They had to go adopt a poor little kid from a drug addicted family, feeling oh so good about themselves. They adopted from chavvy drug addicts and now they had a chavvy drug addict, she exclaimed across every chat.
'I wanted him to be an artist!' She wailed.
'He works at a mechanics!'
'He fucks underage girls!'
And that's where the biggest problem came in. Where all the real trouble and bother in her life started. The point which Karen considered the slippery slope to her misery and eventual demise. Her son was a nonce.
A big dirty nonce.
The worst day of Karen's life was probably the day she adopted Simon. But the second worst day of her life was the day Simon got a 16 year old girl pregnant.
She still remembered the phone call she got from the girl's mum, screaming down the line, calling her family everything under the sun. She still remembered when Simon told her and she saw the girl's forming stomach and she'd dropped to her knees in tears. She still cried for the son she'd never have - the artist, the writer ... the intellectual. Never to be. But little did she know things were going to get a lot worse.
A whole lot worse.
