Feeding My Ego

So, no, I’m not dead or anything, but if you don’t stalk me on Twitter, you might not know that I’m sick. More than just my usual sick.
I went in for lithotripsy to finally get rid of a kidney stone that’s been getting stuck and unstuck for months now. I felt great afterward, but by the next day I could barely breathe. After a whole long terrifying ordeal that I’m just not ready to write about yet, we figured out that I got pneumonia and a staph infection in my blood after the intubation. It happens, I guess.
I’ve been in bed, sleeping for ten days so far. I’m not sure how long I’ll be down for, but until I’m better, this, and my other projects will be on hold.

It’s five am. Which I guess makes it really early in the morning and no longer late at night. The things I think about when I’ve hit that level of so-over-tired-I-can-no-longer-sleep are odd. So. Welcome to the shit I think about at five A.M. And the reason why I don’t sleep much. Sorry. This may make you want to drink Draino. You were warned.

I wrote a comment about god on someones blog post recently. It was a really good comment and it was probably the only time I’ve ever been able to really explain my views coherently. And blogger ate it. It’s not something I can recreate, because it will never be as good.
I hate that. It happens with lost blog posts too. Words just disappeared into the void, eaten by the impermanence of Internet, never to be seen again.
Sometimes the Internet seems almost more real than reality. We have conversations here, make life long friends, even meet our future lovers. We change peoples life for the better, or at times for the worse. And it’s all with the words and images we share. Words and images that can spread like wildfire, reaching people you’d never imagined being able to reach. A celebrity you adore might come across a tweet or blog post you’ve created, someone you admire from afar might actually read your words, and for a second, you’ll be connected. You might make a stranger smile today. You might make a friend think. Or, your words might hurt someone. Or, you know, be eaten by fucking blogger and never be seen again.

Speaking of reaching out to people, I’ve started a new project. It is called Strangers With Kindness and it’s about using the incredible magic superpowers that the Internet has given us all to make a difference in peoples lives. It’s about making the world a better place, one person, one story at a time. We will be sharing stories that highlight the good in people. That tell of how total strangers have reached out a hand to a fellow human in need and made their day.
Not only will we be sharing those stories, but we will be making them ourselves. We are going to find people out there who need a ray of sunshine in their lives, and we are going to Love Bomb them.
It’s going to be amazing. You want to be involved. The feeling you get from helping someone in need, for no reason other than to be awesome, is like no other feeling in the world. You want to feel that feeling. Trust me.

I’d actually planned on like, sleeping a bit tonight. But then the vomit fairy made a stop by my place. She’s a bitch, that fairy. She took out the eight-year-old just for the fuck of it. And for no reason that we can discern, other than to torture her, (and her mother) a bit. Thankfully, after seven straight hours of spewing out of all orifices, the worst seems over.
It’s funny how kids seem to be able to remain in high spirits even between bouts of side splitting poop-stravaganzas.
Us adults on the other hand are whiny crybabies, and if my husband catches this and I have to listen to him moan about how he’s never been so sick before in his life and he means it this time, for REAL, I’m probably going to have to smother him with my red throw pillow.
Don’t worry. As long as there is one wife on that jury, I’m getting off.

Kira got a card from her sisters today. At one point Vi writes “I love you and I miss you like heck!”
This kills me. These people are destroying the lives of four children.
I miss them both so painfully it hurts. But Violet, she gets to me the most. Because, Vi, is MY child you see. There’s a much longer story in here, but the abridged version is that she’s mine. She’s not theirs. Me and my ex were separated when she was conceived. I made some, er, unwise choices, being as I was, overcome with grief and rage after my then-boyfriend of five years and father of our then less-than-one-year-old-daughter confessed that he had been having an affair with the only woman I was allowed to have a friendship with. So, I ended up pregnant with Vi, in the usual way, and her “real” father claimed he was sterile and there was no possible way she could exist. And walked out. After cutting my brake lines.
Cue my ex-husbands brothers horrible tragic death in the middle of this Springer-esque drama, and we end up back together. I’d just discovered I was pregnant- eleven weeks or so at that-and I was very upfront and honest about it. He decided he would pretend the child was his and that was that. Everyone in our families knew and this led to his mother getting drunk one night and spending five hours trying to threaten, coerce, intimidate and plead with me to have an abortion. At twenty-four weeks. She also proceeded to tell me about her abortions which started at age fifteen, and how they weren’t so bad. She ended the night by telling me “Well at least she won’t be ugly” after having seen a picture of the biological father.
Anyway, my ex, (let’s call him “Rex” from now on.) threatened me with abandonment if I didn’t let him sign the paternity papers at the hospital. One of his favorite ways to keep me in line was to tell me if I ever tried to leave him or dud X, Y or Z, he’d leave me and take the kids and I’d be fucked, because I had no money, no skills, no job, no friends and no car. All carefully orchestrated by him, mind you. (The very first thing I did during that first split was finally get my drivers license, which, at age 20, I’d never been allowed to do.)
I digress. The point is, he signed the papers though I wanted to leave the birth certificate blank. It was obvious when she was born that she wasn’t his, based on blood type alone.
(He has since claimed he had a paternity test done proving she is in fact his. She’s not. Mathematically, and scientifically not possible. Besides that, she’s the exact female replica of her bio-father. Like EXACT.)
The point is, she is living with people who treat her like shit and let her sister beat the crap out of her, and who have no biological ties to her whatsoever. I’m not saying you have to be related by blood to have a living bond with a child, far from it. But I am saying, Rex, and his mother have made it quite clear that her sister is the favorite and they only keep Vi around to placate her. She’s the one that deals with the full force of her sisters diseases and disorders. She keeps her sister out of their hair, occupies her so they don’t have to.
And the last time she was here, she begged me, in tears to please PLEASE get her away from them, and her sister. Please.
And oh gods, I tried baby. I really did. She was absolutely terrified. The look or horror in her face when I told Rex and his mother what she wanted was pure fear. They both claimed if it was what she wanted they’d support it and then immediately started with the manipulation. They had signed her up for voice lessons, bought her a new bedroom set. Started sending her pictures of her beloved dogs daily, reminding her that she couldn’t take them of course. And once they went home they started grilling them about every second of their time here, twisted every.single.thing. Until the whole trip, in both their minds was a horror story of screaming and suck. The accounts my ex mother-in-law spewed at me of what she thinks happened here last summer were so incredibly fucked up, exaggerated and warped that it’s no wonder the kids “chose” not to come back this summer.
So yeah. My child was kidnapped and is now being mind fucked and abused. And I can’t do a damn thing about it.
She’s on fucking Klonopin to make her sleep. She wets the bed at ten still. She’s on Focalin or some shut for her supposed “ADHD”. Basically, she is drugged so they can control her. She was off all that shut for nearly three months when she was here- and sugar too, don’t even get me started on what these people feed these kids-and she was FINE. Perfect. Awesome and happy.
Fucking fuck. Just…fuck.

And this is why I shouldn’t write at five AM either.

You ever have one of those days?

It seems I’m having one of those months. Today was just the tip of the iceberg of weird shit that makes up what I call my life.

This afternoon, which I guess was technically yesterday now, I got the joy of having my bladder invaded by an old guy with a camera on a stick. Laying back on a table with my legs in stirrups should be old hat for me by now. I mean, I’ve had four children. That means that approximately 934 doctors, nurses, aides, interns, med students, fireman, anesthesiologists, flower delivery people, cafeteria workers, admission processors, husbands, my mom and probably your mom as well have all seen my most private girl-business. And about a third of those have had their hands up IN my business. (Note: Don’t give birth at a teaching hospital if you can avoid it. “Take turns sticking your hand in there and feeling that.” are not words you want to hear while you are in labor.)
Yeah . Anyway, having my bits flapping in the breeze, exposed for all to see really shouldn’t be any big deal anymore, but there’s just something a bit degrading about being up in those damn stirrups. Especially when everyone leaves the room for like twenty minutes to go have lunch or something, while you remain like that, feeling uncomfortably exposed and really hoping your ass isn’t leaving sweat marks on the stupid paper sheets, because then it will either stick to you when you get to stand up, or you’ll leave behind a sweaty ass-print and be left trying to quickly rip off the offending bit of paper and discreetly shove it into the trash before the nurse comes back in.

So when they came back from their Disney vacation or whatever they were doing while I may or may not have been sweating and half naked in stirrups, the nurse comes in first to “prep” me. She swabs me with one of those q-tip thingys that’s on a foot-long stick, and then tells me the next substance might “Burn a bit, but only for like 30-45 seconds” then she informs me that she’s going to leave the “applicator” in for a bit to help dilate my urethra.

What that translated to was “I’m going to shove a foot long Q-Tip that burns in your pee-hole and leave it there while I go pick my kids up from school and do some grocery shopping.” As she left the second time, she informed me that shed be back when the other doctor was done with the scope and oh by the way “I can tell you are nervous and sweating. Try to relax.”

Yeah, I’m going to relax here, with my legs up in the air, my secret woman-cave all exposed, and a fucking mega-swab shoved in my pee-place. And you had to point out that I was sweating? Really? So now I’ve got paper-stuck-to-my-ass-aphobia going on as well.



As I’m waiting, and trying really hard to will myself not to sweat, it occurs to me that she had said she was waiting for the other doctor to BE DONE WITH THE SCOPE. So now I’ve got visions of being invaded by a probe that was, not ten minutes earlier, firmly ensconced in the penis of the 450 pound, 90 year old man in the wheelchair that I’d seen in the waiting room.

Oh. Joy.

Finally, both nurse and doctor return from bird watching in the Himalayans and I eye the scope wrapped in a blue towel as the nurse sets it down. Seeing my glance she smiles knowingly.

“Don’t worry, we sterilized it. That’s what took so long.”

I mutter something incoherent as the doctor removes the burning swab or piss-pain and unceremoniously invades my bladder with his giant flexible-camera tube. I generally don’t let anyone enter any of my holes unless they have properly woo’d me first or I happen to be giving birth to them, but special circumstances prevail. The nurse spends the entire time watching my face and saying things like:

“My patients tell me it doesn’t hurt, just feels like pressure. But I wouldn’t know myself.”

(Yeah. Bite me.)

I try to keep my face as blank as I can, because she seems to be getting a weird thrill from watching my expressions, but I think I’ve failed.

Meanwhile, the doctor is trying to make conversation with me as he fills my bladder with water and pokes around.
The actual process takes all of three minutes, but these are not normal minutes, these are three extremely long minutes, the kind where every minute last twenty-seven decades.

Then it’s over, and I try to flee, but the doctor is one of those guys that likes to talk, and explain, in detail, things which he has already explained to me repeatedly.

By this point, it is 4:30 and I really really REALLY just want to leave, like NOW already. I’m going to get stuck in rush hour traffic on the highway, and I’ve been there for over two and a half hours. And I’m simply done.

The nurse then redeemed herself a tiny bit by interrupting him to inform me that I HAD to go pee RIGHT NOW in order to rid myself of the water they’d pumped into me, before I got an infection. I silently thanked her and hobbled to the bathroom, walking like an overstuffed penguin who’d just spent 45 minutes in stirrups with a q-tip jammed in her ho-hah.

Eventually I am free. Yay!

The outcome of all this, by the way?
The mystery tumor I had in my bladder has just as mysteriously disappeared.

I’m ok with that.

I have enough weirdshit-itis going on already, thanks.

My kidney stone, which is 6x4mms, is too big to pass on it’s own and keeps popping in and out of the ureter, where it causes intense pain, blockage and bleeding for a bit before “popping” back into my kidney. It needs to come out already, and it’s not in a spot where they can just grab it with their super-tongs on a stick.

They’ve never heard of lithotripsy damaging a pancreas before and think that doing it again is my best option so it looks like I’ll be getting blasted a week from tomorrow if my GI okays it.
I manage to make it home just before six, just in time to cook dinner, wrangle the kids into bed and tackle more of the laundry that never, ever ends.

And that was just Tuesday.

So. How was your day?

*This might have some spoilers if you aren’t caught up with last seasons TV, but I’ll try my best not to ruin anything too major for you.*

So, I’ve been working on this monster of a post for four days now that has led me down a rabbit-hole of hate, or sucked me into a K-hole of absolute horrific-ness or something. (Not that I’m entirely sure what “K-hole” is..I assume it’s that hole between ones anus and fun bits that appears after you’ve had four children?)
And by “working on” I mean “Reading awful, awful shit that has left me unable to hear anything but the sound of white noise only broken by the occasional screech of nails across a blackboard and children screaming, and unable to see anything other than a haze of red and those spots you get after staring directly into the sun by accident. I’ve also started having nightmares where I’m being chased by a thousand people who all look like I imagine Rick Santorum and Rick Perrys’ love child would look. They are all carrying gleaming gold, bloodstained crosses that have every end sharpened into a stake and they are chanting “Repent Liberal Elitist Scum! REPENT!” They haven’t caught me yet, but when they do, I just know they plan to duct tape me to a chair and prop my eyelids open -Clockwork Orange style- and force me to watch Fox News while they perform exorcism after exorcism on me in order to remove the demon that has turned me into a “gay rights” sympathizer.”

What I’m saying is: Issues: I haz them.

Anyway, in an effort to scrub away much of the vile, vile hate that has made it so I can’t even go to the park for fear that cross-bearing morality police will jump out of the bushes and start indoctrinating my children in the finer points of how to spot Teh Gay,* I’ve returned to my favorite mind-numbing, palate cleansing pastime: Television.

Ah, TV, how do I love thee? Let me count the… Hang on, Vampire Diaries is on, I’ll get back to you.

Yes, I watch the Vampire Diaries. And if you have a problem with it, you can bite me. (If you are Damon, you can bite me anyway.)

So, yeah. This month rings in new TV season. Or, as we refer to it around here, the beginning of the season in which my husband and I only communicate during halftime and Grays Anatomy commercials and the kids start taking really long naps and going to bed at seven.

Right now you are all saying: “So, tell us what you watch already! We must know!” Actually, 99.7% could not care less, but, guess what? I’m going to tell you anyway!

The short answer is: I watch everything with a plot. (That is, *not* ” Reality TV”)
The long answer is way more longerer.

Here’s some random lists in no particular order whatsoever.

Shit I watch that I’d probably be ashamed of. If I had shame.

The Vampire Diaries

Why I Heart It: I’m an unreformed Buffy/Angel addict. As such, I need regular fixes of emo/broody vampires that don’t, under any circumstances, sparkle. This show is one of my favorite guilty pleasures. You’ve got your angsty human teenage girl who holds the heart of not one, but two bad-boy vampire brothers. There’s also high school social events to deal with ZOMG the horror! (And I swear, there’s a dance, ball, party, or some other event like twice a week.) And what vampire show would be complete without some gratuitous werewolf action.
Also, see above re: Damon and the biting.

Gossip Girl.

Why? Yes. I know. Shut up, OK? Because It’s awesome. Because Chuck Bass, that’s why. And not even in a creepy-old-chick-who-wants-to-violate-the-gay-boy kind of way. I just love his “I’m an asshole with a heart” deal. And I’m kind of fascinated with Serena.
If you like shows about mega-rich college kids who have nothing better to do than viciously destroy anyone that pisses them off-and when that option isn’t available-each other, then this is the show for you. (There was a poor kid once but then his dad married his girlfriends mom which icked-him out cause then he was dating his sister but then he got over it and he got over being poor too mostly, though it was a hard few months of learning to be rich. Poor thing.)


Why? I don’t have a clue, I really don’t. I guess I grew up watching the original 90210 and Melrose Place, and so I sort of felt like I’d be a traitor to my generation if I didn’t watch the remakes or something. Thankfully, the awful Melrose Place Two:Characters You Don’t Care About tanked, freeing me from my obligation. Less fortunately, 90210:“Kelly’s All “together” Now seems to be going strong. At least Tori Spelling hasn’t managed to land a permanent role in it yet. Since they’ve already dealt with teen pregnancy, divorce, cancer, drug addiction, mental illness, rape and murder, not to mention the horrors of having to tell your friends you are crushing on a geek, I’m hoping they run out of shocking plot lines soon. It’s like a train wreck I just can’t look away from, gods help me.

New Shows That Might Not Suck or Will Totally Suck, or Will Be Awesome And Therefore Canceled After Six Episodes:

The Secret Circle

Every season they try a witch show, in the hopes of creating the next “Charmed”, I suppose. Most of these shows are given less than a chance, but since this one is on CW, I feel like this one may have a better-than-crappy shot. It’s apparently based on a series of books by the same people that wrote the Vampire Diaries, so take that for what it’s worth. (Re:The VD books, I tried to read them.  I recommend you…Don’t. This is one case where the book is not better than the show.) The witches here are teenagers and there looks to be enough cute boys and teen/adult drama mixed in to keep our attention for more than two episodes. We’ll see.

Hart of Dixie

 When I went looking for pictures for this show, I couldn’t find anything that wasn’t Rachel Bilsons face, so I’m not entirely sure if there is anyone else in the cast, or if it’s just an hour of Rachel talking to herself  whilst looking doctor-ish and running away from alligators. I haven’t seen the premiere yet, but the commercials give this one a feel-good comedic drama feel that attracts viewers. It doesn’t have “Record Series” status on my TiVo yet-I’m taking it one episode at a time- but I’ll give it a fair shot.

Up All Night

Out of all of the new sitcoms popping up this season, this looks to be the most promising. And, until someone mentioned it on Twitter, I’d never even heard it existed. A few days after said tweet, I noticed the pilot was on Hulu+ and decided to give it a whirl. I’m not a huge lover of the “new parenting” comedy, mostly because they tend to either portray one or both parents as complete morons, or they paint life with a newborn in a completely unrealistic light. So far though, this one seems relatable and not-entirely awful.


Sarah Michelle Gellar and Sarah Michelle Gellar. Buffy and her twin sister, Buffy. Need I say more? (I refer you to my “Buffy Fangirl” confession above.)


Just kidding. The first episode appeared to be about “Snooki” trying to convince someone not to “H8” Snooki. I think that’s a Snooki pictured above, but I’m not entirely sure. It could be a “Kardashian”. I don’t know what a “Kardashain” does either. But, frankly, I am against any pro-Snooki propaganda on principal. Fight for your right to “H8” Snooki, y’all.

My TiVo Prioritization Says These Shows Are Teh Awesome, And If You Aren’t Watching Them, You Should Be.

(Unless You Like, Have a Life Or Something. In Which Case, I Hope A Team Of Rabid Sporks Eats Your Genitals. I Mean, I Love You.)


Did you see the season finale last spring?! Best. Ex. Revenge. Ever. Of course, I’m taking bets on how many episodes it takes before he’s back at work like nothing happened.


 I love this show so much, it gets two pictures. One for Temperance.

And one for Angel Booth.

Hopefully soon, there will be a third picture to add… (Squee)

NCIS: The Good One

There are a million and one police procedural shows out right now, but this one continues to be the best for a reason. I’ve tried to watch CSI: Ny & Miami, and the Law & Orders, but NCIS is the only one I consistently come back to. Mostly because the characters are better looking, Abby uis awesome and I really kind of want DiNozo and Ziva to “do it”.  I also adore how the women on this show are bad- ass, beautiful AND smart, with the ability to kick some major ass. Ziva could take out any of the men, any day.

(BTW: do watch SVU semi-regularly, simply because I like saying “Mariska Hargitay”)

Grays Anatomy

(Is it Grays? Or Greys? I can never remember.)

It’s popular for a reason. Main characters get smashed by busses and shot at regularly. You can’t go wrong here.

Desperate Housewives

They’re housewives. And they’re Desperate. It’s just so realistic! They’ve got the insider scoop on what it is that us housewives really do when they are home alone! How did they know what I wear when I’m cleaning? It’s like they are holding a mirror up to my life!

The Simpsons

I think Waldo is in there somewhere.

Yes, I have watched every single episode. All 20ish years worth. And yes, I am secretly a twelve-year-old boy who may have said: “Ha! Ha! Cartoon Penis!” during the Simpsons Movie.

Family Guy

There’s this roving gang of taggers in a nearby Texas town that have been using a tag of Stewie Griffins head to mark their territory.  I want to join this gang.

I amagine they jump you in by making you answer trivia questions and shooting off a body part every time you get one wrong.

“How many times has Cleveland and his bathtub fallen out of his house?”


” What does the European Cow say?”


“What started the feud with the giant chicken?”


“What’s the proper response when someone says ‘Meg’?”


You’re in. Sorry about the toes.

How I Met Your Mother

This is my new love. I spent the summer watching the midnight re-runs and I’m not sure how I have been living without this show in my life up until now.The premise of the show- if you live under the same rock I had been hiding under for the past few years- is a man telling his children the story of- you guessed it- how he met their mother. Aside from the odd fact that the main character has this rare disease that causes him to become Bob Saget sometime around 2020

( I call it Sagatitis)

…the show is rather awesome. Yes, that is Doogie Howser, MD. And yes, his character, Barney Stinson, is awesome. And a big fan of the ladies, though the actor himself is decidedly, er, not.

It’s Legen-

Wait for it..

Want to know the rest? Watch the show.

Two and a Half Men

They Killed Charlie!  He exploded like a “Bag of Meat”. And then he ended up in a Dustbuster. And then Ashton moved in. I don’t know what’s going on, either. But it’s generally hilarious.

The Mentalist

Dude, he totally reads between the lines. And shoots people. This man is mind-fuckingly brilliant, and of course, the bumbling CBI agents that work with him would be unable to find their own asses without him. He likes to take naps, drink tea, and generally knows everything about everything at all times, but likes to make the rest of his team, you know, work for it a little.

I’ve probably got more, but while I was writing this, I realized that i probably watch too much TV. If it makes a difference, most of my watching is done while doing laundry. What I’m saying is, we have too much fucking laundry.

Anyway, there you have it: Way more than you ever wanted to know about a total strangers TV watching habits, ever. You’re Welcome.

*This will make sense eventually, if I can actually stomach writing the post about it all.

**Hover over the pictures for stupid comments. Click them if you want to see where Google Images stole borrowed them from.

Lesson 27: Who am I and How Did I Get Here? (Part One)

Or: Things I learned from my last blog

-When starting a personal blog, it’s best not to use your email address as your blog name, because even the stupidest of abusive ex-husbands will eventually think to Google that.

-When starting a replacement blog after getting sick of said ex harassing and stalking you on the first blog-use a pseudonym. Because the only way you can actually be honest, ironically, is by hiding behind a fake name. And start said blog with a nice introduction post to help readers get to know you.
Hi! I’m E.B. Cummings! But you can call me EeeBee!
This is me:


I’m a mom, a wife and an ex-wife, among other things. I have four children. They are Ayla-age12, Violet (Vi) age 10, Kira, age 8 (this week!) and Mason, who’ll be two in November.

This is Kira:

She could not BE more bored right now.

And, This is Mason. Sort of. You try taking a picture of a 21-month old commercial for Adderall boy. All of his pictures turn out like this:

Or, you know, this:

Admit it. You're jealous because YOUR kid can't do this.

Yes, my two other children presumably have faces too. They live with their father right now and pictures of them are few and far between. (Note: See “Douchetruck”)

-If that sounds cheesy and trite, you can always try the renowned “Fake-Interviewing-Yourself” technique, in which you make up questions to as yourself and then answer them, whilst trying to sound as un-schizophrenic as possible.


Q: So, are you one of those bitter divorced women who is just going to whine about her ex nonstop?
A: Maybe. Sometimes. In my defense, my ex is a huge douchetruck. And he made me name one of my kids after a crayon.

Q: Will you blog about other things or post pictures of cats? I hear that’s popular these days.
A: Our cat is really boring. She mostly just lies around and meows and stuff. (Although I suspect at night, when we are sleeping she entertains herself by rubbing her asshole across our lips. Because she’s a cat and cats totally do shit like that YOU KNOW THEY DO.)

"Nothing To See Here."

We do however have dogs that may guest star from time to time. No matter how much I bribe them, they won’t let me balance shit on their faces and take pictures though, so if that’s what you are into, you’ll have to look elsewhere. However, Isis, our very large husky/Rottweiler mutt has a highly entreating Darth Vader phobia that I enjoy exploiting for lol’s and lulz. Because she’s a big dog and she could totally take a Darth-Tater and the pair of Darth-bedroom slippers I inexplicably purchased for my husband years back.

"You're taking another picture of me for that fucking blog thing, aren't you? I bet you're even adding snarky comments that you have to hover over the pictures in order to see."

We also have another dog who might occasionally star here-probably in a post entitled “Shit my dog ate” And he’s a Chihuahua/Mini-Pinscher/JackRussell mix that was originally named Berry by Kira but we felt that we had to give him some dignity and thus shortened it to the more manly “Bear”.

Somewhere in this picture is a dog, and a bunch of shit he's eaten.

Q: Okayyy. Moving on. What else can readers expect to find here?
A: Hmmm. Well. I’ve been blessed with several chronic illnesses. This occasionally puts me in some surreal situations. Or situations where I’m forced to poop in a trash bag while following instructions that feel the need to remind me not to drink anything from the provided poo-collecting cup.
I try not to get too maudlin about the whole I-might-die thing because, well, everyone is going to die. My pancreas might rot out in ten years, give or take, but you might get hit by a truck tomorrow, so it’s all relative. (And I apologize to the guy whose mothers brothers second cousin twice removed was hit by a truck last week.)
So, yeah. Where was I? Oh right, poop. Aside from my own poop stories, well I have kids. And pets. And anyone who has those knows that, on some days, LIFE TOTALLY REVOLVES AROUND POOP. Because even my eight-year-old still leaves poop crumbs in various places. Sorry Kira but OMG LEARN TO WIPE.
Q: And thanks for that. I think it’s time to end this as we are crossing the border into crazy-ville.
A: I think you’re right.