Genetics kill me.
As I was working on finding a job and a place to stay today, I tweeted with my 20-year-old about Vladimir Nabokov.
It turns out, never having discussed him, we both have a love of his writing, particularly "Lolita."
Where genetics comes into this is this has happened dozens of times during her life. We've both come to the same conclusions independently on a myriad of subjects and I trace it directly to genetics. Studies of twins separated at birth show they tend to have the same favorite color, dress similarly, marry the same and even share hobbies.
When my kid was 15 years old, she asked if I knew Gore Vidal. I told her I was obsessed with him -- when I was 15.
We both need to needed -- NEEDED -- to see "Straight Outta Compton" and "The Disaster Artist."
Somehow, despite being born in 2000, she loved Dolemite the character before Eddie Murphy's movie.
She loves pens and stationery. (I have a slight addiction.)
My kid is a critical thinker. I remember watching "Who wants to be a Millionaire?" when she was about 6 years old and there was a question about board games. She said she didn't know the answer but knew that three of the four choices were false. I suggested this is where reasoning came in. If she knew three of four were wrong, then she could reason the fourth answer was correct.
I swear I could see a light bulb in her head explode.
She continues to be a bright light in my darkness. All with a handful of texts.
Peace and love unto you my brothers and sisters.