Pro: Who’s paying this mortgage? Not you, Jenny

By Barbara Brown

Coming back home after living on your own for a year and a half has been a big adjustment for all of us. I know you’re used to doing whatever you want whenever you want, but when you’re in my house you live by my rules.

That means no sleeping until 3 p.m., and no staring at that damn phone eight hours a day. Imagine what would happen if you spent that time learning a new skill, like doing the dishes for once.

Who are you always texting, anyways? You should be calling your grandmother. Aren’t you worried about her getting lonely cooped up in the house all day? She says she misses you. She said that. 

I can’t control what you do out there, but I can under my own roof. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your room constantly smells like cotton candy. I know what vaping is, Jenny. And if you can be swiping through that pile of promiscuous men in your phone you could have gone on one date with the son of Denise from church. One date, that’s all I asked for. Kenneth is such a sweet boy. I spoke to her on the phone yesterday, and she said it’s not too late. Do you want his number? I have his number. If you want it.

This in mind, could you take a look at the cable box? Your father knocked it over a month ago, and we’ve been stuck watching C-SPAN every night since. I want to see the singing show, you know, the one I like, with that Ryan Seagrass. America’s Next Top Talent. 

Thanks, love you.

Con: If I can get charged for murder, I can decide when to wake up

By Jenny Brown ’22 

It might seem like just yesterday I was starting kindergarten, but that was actually quite a few yesterdays ago. I think I know how to take care of myself by now, considering I have been for almost two years now.

I can manage my own time without your help. Please stop waking me up at 8 a.m. every morning. Please. I know that’s when you and Dad wake up, but I just don’t want to. I can eat the Cream of Wheat you made at literally any other point in the day. I don’t want to fight about this. Please. 

I think we need to set some boundaries. As an adult, I should be entitled to some privacy and personal space. You turned my bedroom into a home gym. How am I supposed to relax with Dad coming in to use that weird bike thing every night? There’s always sweaty towels in here. It’s starting to smell like him. And as much as I appreciate it when you ask if I want some juice or something, I really do, could you try not to do it while I’m in a class? You don’t need to introduce yourself to my professor. 

I’ll call Grandma. I’m worried about her too. But if she starts talking about how the reptile Democrats are immune to coronavirus again, I’m passing the phone to you. And we can spend “quality family time together” the other 14 hours a day I’m not on the phone with anyone. No more card games, though. I love playing rummy with you and Dad, but I just can’t do it anymore. I know you’re cheating. I might not be able to prove it. But I’m on to you, Mom. 

… love you too.

Editor’s Note: This article is purely satirical and fictitious. All attributions in this article are not genuine and this story should be read in the context of pure entertainment only.

Contact Lana Tleimat at ltleimat ‘at’ stanford.edu.