My Sympathy Meter Reads "Zero"

You and your soon-to-be ex-husband are in the process of moving. For some reason, you're both standing in the middle of WalMart parking lot with your crappy, overflowing pickup truck pulling a crappy, overflowing U-Haul trailer, arguing over the custody and visitation papers that one of you doesn't want to sign. And you're holding your little child in your arms while you scream back and forth at each other in the wind and cold and rain, and in front of the whole fucking world.

I couldn't care less about which of you think's s/he's the injured party. I don't give a shit that one of you wants the child every other Thursday and twice on Sundays, but the other wants him on odd-numbered holidays and during the full moon. Put that poor little kid in the truck where it's warm and where he's out of earshot, and you two idiots go sit somewhere and try to act like actual human beings and work this out. Because you're propelling this kid down the road that'll lead to him being in my next generation of clients. I've seen a hundred times.