“Imagine attending a party where you are not permitted to speak to anyone. You are put on a leash with a collar round your neck, repeatedly hit around by a band of tiny humans playing a game of volleyball in slow motion, and eventually left to die a slow and painful death as your lifeblood leaves your body. Sounds nasty right? This is the sad life of the balloon.”
“A life of servitude, a life enslaved; your only hope that one of the better off parents like myself, will fill you with helium, inadvertently funding your escape as you rush off to the outer stratosphere… before again meeting with your unavoidable demise as you pop under the pressure.”
“In many ways, the balloon is the perfect metaphor for our own mortality. You can try and escape it, but a little like Icarus you will always end up flying too close the sun. How appropriate indeed, that the balloon is found at nearly every birthday party. One year older, one year closer to death. Happy Birthday to my very special son, Jimmy.”
This was the speech that I made at my 5 year old son’s most recently birthday, much to the dismay of his low-life infant friends and their parents. Since then, I have left my wife. More specifically, she has secured a restraining order so that I cannot see my son. Many ask me if it was worth it? And my answer is yes, yes it was worth it. I proved my point perfectly and taught my son an important life lesson: existence is futile and nothing matters anyway, demonstrated by the short and pointless lifespan of the balloon.