I’m watching a young boy stagger down the street with his pants down around his ankles, and he can’t be more than 16. Obviously out all night, a quart of Jameson as his date he’s still clutching protectively.
This is the second Upper East Side kid I’ve seen in somewhat disturbing disgrace, the other, pelting eggs at stunned pedestrians.
I have one question, as mundane as it is…where are the parents? Sleeping at 6 a.m. I’d imagine, but how could you sleep not knowing where your son is?
This is how it starts, addiction in all its debilitating glory.
A stolen bottle of liquor, someone over 21 agreeing to buy him a six-pack of beer. By the time he’s of age, and can buy it himself, he’ll have a good, rooted habit already beneath his belt he sadly, at 16, forgot to put on which is why he’s obliviously mooning all of Third Ave.
I just don’t get it. I wasn’t lucky enough to have children which, from my standpoint, is the ultimate grace.
How can parents be this casual? Makes me think of Columbine and Sandy Hook, when one wonders, how did that happen?
It’s called, not paying enough attention to your kids.
As I stand outside drinking my coffee, no longer able to sit, the booths taped up like a crime scene, I’m watching him careen down the street, stumbling and falling, barely able to hold up his jeans.
It’s breaking my heart, and no, Joan of Arc, or Bark as I’m better known, will not go rescue him, but I’ve prayed in my own scrappy, urban language…
Hey God, wake the fuck up please, and help this kid? Thank you.
I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves.
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