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You know, I'd be crushed and all, but the more I'm around this family, the more I understand - things must always get worse, or the drama goes impotent. That's the fucked up part about life. You have to keep stroking the family drama. Wouldn't want anyone to feel, you know, good about their lives, or selves exactly the way they are. Wouldn't want any bullshit Zen calm descending on the home. That'd be nuts. You stroke the drama with everything you've got until you run out of energy. Then you die. The end. Orgasm accomplished.
Or maybe what I really want to tell him is "Um, brainbuster? Next time you work with a female? Ask her which city her body is. Or ocean. Give her poetry books written by women. Like Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton and H.D. and Adrienne Richa and Mary Oliver and Emily Dickinson. Let her draw or paint or sing a self before. You. Say. A. Word.