chaotic neutral
My oldest is quiet, thoughtful; weighs her words with great care. Is almost troublingly empathetic. Has an innate knack for storytelling and world-creating. On the weekends, in the early hours, she reads me things she has written. These are sacred moments we store up for one another, the predawn conversations we share before the rest of the household is awake.
My youngest is complete chaotic neutral energy. A deep thinker and a born nurturer. Wildly passionate and curious. But what rises to the surface, what most people experience, is her chaos. The way she speaks with absolutely no filter.
• What would you do if I accidentally sent you a sexy Kermit and Fonzie romantic fanfic?
• Can somebody waterboard me? Please and thank you.
• Would you still like me if I was the ghost of a dead owl?
• What would you do if I started spewing obscenities and ranting about conspiracy theories?
• I'm so excited I'm going to eat my skin!
• What would you do if you woke up tomorrow and everyone spoke in Russian?
• For my birthay you should buy me a trumpet. It would be awesome and I wouldn’t abuse my power one bit.
All of this within a couple of hours, not to mention she’s got a slide whistle she's using for emphasis (her words).
The oldest is much more like me; the youngest is more like her father. Last night, apropos of absolutely nothing, he looked at me and said the following:
"I wish I could trust raccoons, but if there's anything I've learned, it's that wild animals can turn on you. Like Sigmund and Freud, with the tigers."
"You mean Zigfried & Roy."
I was met with a comically exaggerated wink and an impish grin. "See what I did there?"
"Not really," I deadpanned. But I did eventually laugh at his terrible joke, which was, of course, his goal.
He says so many ridiculous things, usually to make me laugh when I'm taking life too seriously. But also because he's a bit of a chaotic neutral himself.
2:47 p.m. - 2023-07-24