The alternate dimension my son calls reality

OK, son, let’s discuss reality. Both of them: yours and mine.

See, mine is the one in which money doesn’t miraculously appear just because we want to spend it. In my reality dogs don’t like when kids try to ride them across the living room; fish actually die if you choose not to feed them; and in my reality your bedtime is not, nor has it ever been, midnight.

Your reality is, well, whatever you want it to be at the time.

Case in point:

Hey son, don’t hit the dog.

I didn’t.

Yes, you did. I just watched you do it.

That wasn’t a hit.

What do you mean it wasn’t a hit? What else would you call it?

It was a pat. I patted him.

That wasn’t a pat!

Yes it was.

No. No it wasn’t. A pat doesn’t hurt.

Yes it does. A pat is supposed to hurt.

Since when?

Since always.

Oh, really? Well, then what do you call a hit?

This is a hit.

Ouch! That’s not a hit. That’s a kick.

Nuh uh.

What are you talking about? You can’t just– You know what? I don’t care what you want to call it, just don’t do it!

But he likes it.

He doesn’t like it. He—Argh!

…………..

OK, I see what you did there. I just spent 20 minutes in a silly argument about the meaning of the word “hit” instead of punishing you for doing whatever it is you call what you did.

You, my son, are either brilliant or you’re living proof that alternate dimensions do indeed exist. I’m pretty sure it’s the latter, which should make string theorists pretty excited.

Don’t get me wrong, I like your reality; it’s way more interesting than mine. It’s just that mine seems to be the one everyone else is in.