Birth of the Flowerpot Man

Looking at the Flowerpot Man in a Full Length Mirror

I once asked my parents, two regular fleshy creations of God, just how I came to be.

‘Well, you know when a man and women get together, and love each other very much, well…’ My mother giggles, rubbing a hand atop one of my father’s. My fingers are made of numerous tiny pots, the type that are usually made for fridge magnets. I once chipped a finger after getting it caught in a drawer. My mother rushed over and held my hand, but it cut her. She never really held my hand much at all after that.

‘I’m not asking about the birds and the bees, I’m asking about my… condition.’ I watch as they shuffle with discomfort.

‘Well, you see son, it’s all the same. There are millions of people wondering just why they came out like they did, but that’s not important. Just know that we love you.’ That’s the final answer from my father. The two provide the same smile to reassure me, to stop me from asking more. Because they don’t know. No one does. The doctors didn’t, the scientists didn’t, so my parents certainly didn’t. Sometimes it just has to be asked though.

‘We wouldn’t have you any other way,’ my mother adds. Then she starts laughing her ass off. She’s slapping my father’s leg as she laughs. She snorts as she laughs. She cries as she laughs. ‘Sorry, I just remembered a funny dog video I saw on YouTube. It’s a dog which falls into a river, and it looks like it’s going ‘help me, help me’.

‘Ahahaha, that is a funny video. You’ll have to show me,’ he’s staring into space.

‘Didn’t the dog actually drown in the video?’ I added. I’d seen that video too.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. I didn’t watch it all.’

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