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No egg rolls, wontons.
I can't think. Like, my brain is just not firing, the wires got mixed up, twisted. I don't even know if that makes sense. I'll go until I tell Elliott good night, and tickle him.
Shawn has given Elliott a bath every night since he was old enough to squirm hard, and he slipped the tiniest bit, and I couldn't handle the fact that I might accidentally hurt him. It fucking terrifies me. I also can't handle dislocated things. I can handle bruises, cuts (not the really bad ones). Why did I hope so hard for a boy? I have at least 20 more years of this.
I think it's because I like surprises. And boys are full of them. And I didn't want to raise me.
Is this the human condition? This... mess? I'm starting to worry now about the bigger picture.
I like dogs, but they are too fucking loud.
5:55 p.m. - 2013-01-25
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