Wow.

I thought I deleted this shit.

Well a few things have happened in the intervening years. The aforementioned bun-in-the-oven has since been birthed. My participation in that process was vital, I'm sure. Mostly I just stood next to my moaning wife and scowled. For a day and a half.

Long labor.

The cherub has plumped and stretched into a rather large two-year-old that looks like she's already three. Her linguistic development has outstripped my expectations, leaving me chronically exhaling through flared nostrils. She's a bit of a sass-mouth.

Instead of simply saying 'no', she says shit like, 'I just can't.'

Parenthood is kind of fucked. It's not a popular opinion, but it's true. The constant care and feeding of offspring is really peculiar. I would never do this shit for someone I didn't actually help spawn.

Maybe a foster kid or something, but that's it.

It baffles me when I think of trading a lifetime of free will for a job as prison guard. I'm not even the warden, just a lowly cage-rattling bull. Ever the unwilling resident, the cherub has turned conscientious objection into a way of life. She will refuse anything offered her and protest with demonic vehemence any limitation.

How can someone be insane and too young for preschool?

Fuck, I'm bored.

I have the next four days off, which should be nice, but I have a sneaking suspicion that there's a laundry list of chores waiting for me. There's always chores to be done. I might as well be Amish.

As for the to-do list for this day past, I managed to get one of the items taken care of. I'll give you three guesses which one. Organization helps.

To Do List: for tomorrow

1. Reschedule Lamaze classes that I will not be able to attend.


2. Contact a pediatrician or two.


3. Tell the fine people at Sallie Mae to politely go piss up a rope for another six months while I don't pay them any money.


4. Buy ant traps. Those fuckers are EVERYWHERE.


5. Determine a fair market value for a human kidney with only minor kidney stone damage.


6. Gaze ruefully at the kitchen sink that refuses to drain faster than a molasses jar in January.


7. Masturbate. (like I'd forget)

That's a full day for any night-working, doctorless, broke, insectocidal, did I mention broke?, semi-retarded, chronic masturbator if ever I saw one.

Sex toys really are quite a bit more fun than I would have thought.

Generally speaking, I am a Prude; Vanilla, if it could be made from something less dangerous than alcohol.

Wouldn't it be nice if I could blame this on some ass-backward Catholic upbringing, or even just terribly conservative parents? Yeah. I've been to church like twice, and my dad had a porn collection that required its own room.

So much for those theories.

Rather, my crippling inhibition comes from something altogether less interesting: I'm insecure. Sexy, huh? Even my problems are bland. fuck

By some means of Woman Magic, my seemingly equally vanilla wife has managed to get toys into our bedroom and let me think it was her idea. It's easy to forget that I'm baffled when I'm convulsing like a clumsy electrician. I'm still working this out, but the end result is a lot of giggling and a new respect for plastics.

Question: Once one begins down the "What's this do?" path, where does it end?

Ah the joys of anonymity.

The wave of "Let's get shit done" energy has since crested and fallen. The past couple of days, I've been in a more, "Fuck it" mood. I have no explanation for this, but feelings of sloth/entitlement are hard to call.

Is it normal for every fucking person you know to suddenly remember every fucking miscarriage story they ever fucking heard as your wife's due date looms ever closer? Just me?

Like I don't have enough to worry about. I always have enough to worry about.

Actually, that's not true. There have been brief periods in my life where most of my major hassles were resolved at approximately the same time. Sick as it may sound, I actually walked around wondering what it was that I was missing. I felt like the axe was about to drop, like I wasn't going to see it coming. Sick.

I have shaped a world encrusted with anxiety. My life is a fruitful horticultural experiment to see if life can survive bathed in a matrix of tension and self-loathing. Good stuff.

But there's always a light, isn't there?

My light is currently making fitful kicks and shoves inside my wife's abdomen. She's ever so small, and we've never been properly introduced, but I love her so. Being a father is slowly changing everything. It's like some Great Shuffling, where all the useless crap gets seperated from the parts of life that matter.

She matters. My wife matters.

It's a short list.

I've decided to use this space to store the insufferable crap that my limp dick of a creative mind dribbles forth. That is, when I'm not suffering from my typical paucity of ideas or things to share.

You see, from time to time I get this bug up my ass to write something. Usually, this occurs just after I've read something that a) I really enjoyed, or b) gave me fits.

It's kind of like when one of your friends starts screwing some beastly woman, and you find yourself wondering how good she is in the sack. Hence, seeing it done seems to give credibility to the unlikely notion that it might be fun.

And it gives me something else to do that isn't chronic masturbation.

Disclaimed

What you read here is entirely false, except for the parts that are either mean or embarrassing.

Those parts will probably be true.