Sometimes when we talk - actually, it's more you talk and I listen - I feel like I'm in a scene from "Forrest Gump". You're Pvt. Benjamin Buford 'Bubba' Blue and I'm Forrest Gump.
You remember those scenes: while Forrest and Bubba assemble their rifles, shine their boots, scrub the floor with toothbrush, Bubba continues on and on about preparing shrimp, eating shrimp, and making a multitude of foods with shrimp. Finally, there's a pause and Bubba says, "That - that's about it."
There's no "that's about it" with you. You go on and on about your life's plans, your kids' plans, your parents' plan; what your kids are doing wrong, what your parents are doing wrong, what I'm doing wrong; why your kids should be doing this, why your parents should be doing that, why we should be doing the other. This goes on during our shopping trips, our television viewing, our drives to help your kids, and as I'm trying to get to a few hours of sleep after a long day of trying to earn enough money to keep your unemployed self safe and sound under my roof.
Like Forrest, I keep my mouth shut and take in your almost-ceaseless droning. I know better now than to engage you with my thoughts - be they in agreement or otherwise.
I'm not saying that you have the mental capacity of Bubba Blue. You are far above that. Yet, given the way you've been treating me, I can't help but feel as though I'm only a simple-mined Gump in your life. And that's all you want.
No, I'm not Forrest. First of all, I don't have a movie directing fate to bring my outcomes into wondrous conclusions. And you are definitely no Jenny.
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