Disclaimer: I would be a happy child if Kimbley were mine…but I am very sad…
BANG!!!
"HAHA!!!!!!!" I groan and smack my head against the rail of the ship. It's generally considered a perk of living in Washington DC, that you get to go on fancy river cruises to watch the 4th of July fireworks. But this year is different. Because THIS year, I'm stuck escorting a fucking PHSYCHOPATH.
BOOM!!!
"OOOOOH, did you see THAT one?! Did you see it?!"
Dear god…
Kimbley at a fireworks display could easily be used as an analogy to a kid in a pizza place/candy shop/arcade hybrid. People are giving us weird looks. As yet another bloom of gold stars tears through the night sky, eliciting yet another gleeful exclamation from my pyro-manic charge, I mouth a dismal apology at the other cruise goers.
Kimbley showed up on my doorstep eleven months ago, dirty and miserable in a world he didn't recognize. For some unfathomable reason, I, a starving artist, agreed to take him in…on the condition that he not blow up my apartment. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, thank god. At least on this side of the gate he couldn't bust anything alchemically. But I still had found myself smacking his twitchy hands away from the microwave on multiple occasions. My family thought he was just a somewhat unstable boyfriend, though he was really more of an unstable roommate. Having him come home at odd hours of the night stone drunk had become almost common at this point, though I have to admit that, after numerous retaliating swirlies and ass beatings, he has been getting better…
TH-TWOOM! BAM!!!!!! BOODABABOOM!!!!!!!
The moron is clapping and hopping like some little girl with a new Barbie. I guess I can't really blame him. He likes blowing crap up, it's his hobby. I mean, whenever he gets bored he goes online to look up footage of nuclear explosions, which he thinks are pretty much the most beautiful things in existence. I haven't seen him this excited since…well, since three weeks ago when I told him that we Americans have an entire holiday full of explosions.
Oh, Jesus help me, the grand finale…
Yup. I called it. There's Kimbley, head thrown back, laughing like the utter head case he is…
And finally, it's over. Kimbley's practically in tears as we disembark, me patting him on the shoulder and muttering under my breath. On the way home, we pas a small dollar store, and I suggest we go in for a little look-see. Random shit always seems to cheer him up. As we wander the aisles, I hear a squeal of glee from behind me. I turn to find Kimbley, eyes shining delightedly, holding a little packet of party poppers. You know the ones, you throw them on the ground and they make a nice, satisfying, neighbor disturbing crack. He's giving me the big eyes. He knows they nevr work, but he tries anyway.
"Fine," I grumble. He squeals again and hugs me.
"You know…they're only a buck fifty…" he wheedles. "maaaaaaaybe just ooooooone more…?"
"Alright, alright, but I'm stopping at two!"
"OKAY!"
"And you're keeping them on the balcony; I don't want bun marks on my carpet."
"OKAY!"
"And if I see you throwing them at innocent passers by…" he freezes.
"…sooooo…only if you see me…?"
I smack my forehead.