Proof finally that blogs are the last refuge of nine-year-old girls who refuse to grow up: I’m going to tell you about a dream I had the other night. Don’t worry: You weren’t in it. (Remember that? That was like, the coolest excuse to talk to a guy in the fifth grade. “I had a dream and you were in it!” Anyway.)
In this dream, I had a baby. Like, all of a sudden. I wasn’t pregnant or anything, I was just my normal self. And then, poof! Baby.
I wasn’t thrilled about this. The baby was cute and all, but I was kinda pissy that I wouldn’t be able to go out anymore. But it grew on me as babies do. They’re supposed to, which is why God made them little and cute and sweet-smelling, in addition to loud and irritable and shit-spewing. All things in life are a tradeoff.
Then, all of a sudden (again), I looked up and the baby was gone. Poof! No more baby. And I was all sad. But more than that, I was really concerned that I turned out to be the sort of person who could actually misplace a baby — which is what I’ve always told anyone who asked why I don’t have one.