An Exercise in Futility

Disclaimer: I really feel like I’ve been phoning it in lately. If it wasn’t for the occasional injury to my children there wouldn’t be any reason to stop by at all.

It’s not that I don’t care, far from it. It’s not even that I’m burnt out. I’m just freaking tired. Blogging for 12 hours a day takes a lot out of a guy.

I decided to do something different tonight. When I was in college we had these exercises where you had to write a story in five minutes, strictly stream of conscience. I did that tonight, basically because I wanted to post but didn’t know what I wanted to post about so I just started typing. It felt good, even if it doesn’t read that way. I just wrote the silly crap that came out of me in roughly five minutes and hit save. Then I came back and threw this damn disclaimer on it so you wouldn’t know think I was losing my mind. Alright, enough, with all apologies, here’s me in a five minute nutshell:

You know that moment when you can’t find whatever it is that you JUST HAD seconds ago and you start to curse a little and maybe fling your arms around and then you realize the item is in your other hand? I do that shit all the time. It’s actually starting to become a problem. I don’t think I want the neighbors to see me standing in the yard at 4 in the afternoon in my pajamas and a jacket with no shirt on scooping up dog crap and yelling to the heavens that my damn shovel disappeared when it is clearly sticking upright in the ground about two inches from my face. Again. It’s starting to get old.

But it happens. It happens so I go inside and peak through the curtains, which aren’t really curtains as my wife has yet, 4 years later, decided on a proper window treatment, but are actually two summers worth of cat hair trapped in the cobwebs that I don’t want to clean because at least now I know where the damn spiders are. In the meantime they’re curtains and I peak through them, trying not to sneeze at the cat dander against my face and trying not to puke at the beads made of fly carcass against my fingers. I peak through and I watch the neighbors to make sure they aren’t moving my shovel and trying to fuck with me. They’re not. This time.

This is normal right? I fear that my Stay-At-Home-Dadness is becoming borderline shut-in. How long do I have to stay in before some charity starts bringing me trays of food in a truck? How the hell do these charities find shut-ins if no one ever sees them?

These are the things I wonder at night while Love loves me. The puppy has taken to sleeping with me. On me would be more accurate. If she had her little puppy breath any closer to my face I’d be waking up with a dog in my mouth. I can’t even fall asleep with her so close to me, it makes me uncomfortable. She claws and nips and digs to the point that I think her real goal is to be inside me- in a Han Solo has a lightsaber sort of way. It ain’t that cold. She just wants a big Whit coat, all 101 pounds of it, give or take eighty-ish. I’m afraid to go to bed because little Cruella De Vil might freaking cut me and have me skinned by morning.

I think I’ll turn the heat up tonight. The spiders like it hot.

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