Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Scared Bejesus

Four days away, guess I oughta write something, eh?

Wallowing in alternating pools of self-pity, anger, and anxiety, while normally loads of fun, just can’t be sustained. So I’m out of the pool and ready to dry off, at least until the urge to swim takes hold again. Hmm, it appears I’m a four year-old. I did get a little something accomplished, spending approximately two solid days researching a couple of investments. Even if they don’t pan out I can at least say that I learned quite a bit.

Oh yeah, and Rachel scared the living and the dead bejesus out of me this weekend.

I was bitching about other people’s little shitheads at the time. Or maybe I was yelling at the dumb parents of little shitheads on the television, I forget. Regardless, I had sounded off another round of a phrase often heard around the house, “See? Yet another reason why kids are a bad idea.” I forget now exactly why the hell I said it. I think it was news of some demon seed kid burning down a school and then stabbing the family dog to death while flipping off his parents and teabagging his neighbor. Or something like that. You know what I mean.

“I think the urge to have you knock me up is getting bigger.”

Now, never let it be said that I don’t love doing all the knocking that is humanly possible. It’s the “up” part that is utterly frightening. I find “boots” to be infinitely preferable to “up.”

“Really? REALLY? For realies and for trulies? Get out of here. You’re just messing with me.”

The look confirmed that the biological clock was indeed in the first stages of rising from what I had previously hoped was a permanent state of dormancy. Ruh-Roh.

You know that sound you make when you burn yourself? That sound where you’re sucking air through clenched jaw with an attractive grimace on your face? Yep, that was about all I could do at that point.

There aren’t too many things that frighten me. Snakes have the power to render me vaginafied, but that’s about it, unless talks about pregnancy begin. If that’s the case, give me a snake. Kids are an exponential degree more frightening, and we really don’t mix too well at all. Typically they’re rendered speechless at the sheer size and odd shape of my head. I’m frightened of their sheer lack of size, their constant toddling and whatnot, the incessant noise, and sometimes, the odd size and shape of their head, as well.

Kids and I are the definition of awkward. Lot’s of blinking and not much talking, just ask my 6 month-old nephew.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a small up-tick.”

I appreciated her saying so, but I still made the noise a couple more times for good measure. I don’t feel like my life is together yet, why compound the difficulty? Leave the lovely degenerate lifestyle behind? Pfft. Not yet. Maybe later. Just not yet.

It will happen sooner or later, I’m pretty sure of that. After all, her happiness is my ultimate concern, and if that means spawning our own little shitheads then so be it. Just let it be on the official record that I’m going to have to approach that particular ledge with some serious baby steps and cajoling, not unlike the cajoling necessary to get me off of the diving board for the first time.

See? Told you I was a four year-old. A four year-old that loves knocking.