Babysitting

I have never understood the term "babysit". It seems counterintuitive to name something that demands compassion and empathy, after an act most commonly attributed to post-partum syndrome. Its not so much that I have never understood the importance of care-taking, but moreover, I have never understood why I must be the one to do it. I cannot even claim to be compassionate and caring in regards to my youngest brother. He seems to exemplify everything that I hate most about myself, thus I am cursed, forced to a night of "external self-depreciation" as the city comes to life. As the strobe lights begin to flash, I turn on the Lion King, forced to admire another man's dementia instead of basking in my self-imposed inebriation. As shots are poured, I pour a glass of hot milk. As the music blares, I close my ears to block out the incessant shrieking. As the dance floor begins to shake as if in rapture, the stairs begin to shake as I pull him kicking-and-screaming to his bedroom. As he escapes into the solace of his dreams, I sit and brood over every moment that has been taken from me, moments lost all for the sake of family. The night passes and another day arrives, I cannot help but regret the loss.