Woke up this morning feeling tired, likely from being up a few times last night. My hip feels like it got wacked by someone drunkenly swinging a bat. Okay, maybe just really hard with a badminton racquet but it still hurts. The kids are eating graham crackers. My wife finished off the coffee and I’m on the next pot. Time to let my mind poop and write what comes out.
The days are a series of laundry and dishwasher cycles, broken up by going to work and listening to people behave poorly.
The cat might believe she’s the Hypnotoad of “Futurama” fame. Yet I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know what “Futurama” is. Seriously, Pepper, stop staring at me.
I haven’t been able to spend Halloween, my favorite holiday, with the kids yet. I hate that.
I need to bake more frequently.
I need to eat what I bake less frequently.
My older daughter had one of her toys telling the other that popcorn would give them gas. I don’t know where she came up with that one.
I don’t remember the last time I had fish and chips.
My youngest daughter thinks that giraffes go “vvvvvvffff,” and I’m not completely sure if she’s wrong.
I’m currently humming a song about the cat to the tune of a Backstreet Boys song. I blame many of the girls I was friends with in the late 90s for the fact that I know the tune of a Backstreet Boys song.
I think having children has caused me to detect poopy diaper smells when there are no actual poopy diapers. Either that, or I’m haunted by flatulent ghosts.
I wonder when the next time I get fudge will be? I don’t exactly have excess fudge money.
That’s all I have left. I started drinking the next pot of coffee. But I don’t think it’s working too well. I actually feel sleepier. So I should probably go hang out with the girls. All glory to the Hypnocat.