He's Dead Meat

YES, HE IS DEAD MEAT.

I've told him that maybe 100 times. As with any boneheaded teenage male, he basically HAS no brain. He only has hormones and totally undeveloped intelligence and instinct.

He's SO unaware and SO alike to me at his age, it's scary.

But I'm crazy about him.

All I wanted to do tonight when I got home was put my feet up and watch my football team crush the team from a much bigger city and the centre of the universe, Toronto. Which they did, 39-9.

But when I got home, this is the destruction I saw.

Three plates, at least, two oven trays, tons of utensils...all left for me to clean up.

I give him warning after warning after warning. Of course, he ignores almost all of them.

Also, of course, he's a total goober. I mean, he's a teenage guy.

Gasp.

Of course, too, my caring for him is unconditional.

But really, this transcended even that.

So like I said, he is dead.

He's dead meat, when I pick him up tonight from work at 2 a.m.