one month down

Buster is a month old today.

The first thing that went through my mind when I realized it was "one month down! Yes!"

What's hilarious about that is, the end of that phrase usually declares how much longer you still have to go. And for me, the end of that phrase is like, "one month down... the rest of my life to go!"

So... wheeee?

I don't know. I suppose it is cause for celebration. I can think of a few reasons to throw some confetti in the air.

1. We all managed to stay alive for 30 days!
2. The rug is already filthy as fuck and nobody would even notice a handful of confetti.
3. I might be able to convince Chicken that picking up confetti is a game.

But on the front burner, I've got a chronically underslept person's rawness of emotion, absence of filter, and... something else... there was a third thing, I know it... well. It'll come back to me later...

I'm remembering what it feels like to sleep like ass for a month straight.

Sure, I knew I was losing my wit, word recall, and my skin's lustrous St. Tropez glow (sorry, my wit's gone. That's the best I can do for a third-item-in-the-list-is-silly joke right now.)

And while I stand by my earlier optimism that it's easier the second time around because I know it will eventually end, and I know I can survive it, there are a couple of "Oh yeah, NOW I remember this" sucky-sucks that are rearing their ugly heads again.

The one that's really annoying me tonight?

My inability to make decisions. I'm usually pretty decisive, organized, perhaps even a little "neurotic," one might say. If one were being a dick about a certain someone wanting to pack her son's outfits in Ziploc bags labeled with the days of the week while they're going to be on vacation.

(Side note: I, like many of us, used to make a distinction between "dick" and "big dick," like if someone's being even worse you might call him a "big dick," but then I realized that increasing the size is actually a COMPLIMENT in that context, so then I started saying like "quit being such a smelly dick," or "he was just being the most eggplant-shaped-and-colored dick." But that's not the kind of thing you can really say casually, without a back story, right? Good thing I just gave you the back story. What was I talking about? Oh right, my inability to make decisions. Back to regularly scheduled programming in 3... 2... ::silently points to camera::)

So like I was saying, can't make decisions.

This happened in my head:

What should we do for breakfast? 
Simple question. What sounds good?
I don't know. 
Okay, what did you have for breakfast yesterday?
I don't know. 
Seriously? You can't remember what you had for breakfast one day ago?
It's a total blank. I don't remember yesterday at all. I don't even know what day it is. Or what month. Wait, no, I know. It's still June, right? 
The 4th of July was like 3 days ago.
Right. That's right. So it's July. 
It's also a really good thing your family spent private-university tuition on your theater degree, you fucking idiot.
I know. I'm totally useless. 
Clearly, you're not totally useless. You breed like a donkey. Exhibit A is strapped to your chest. Exhibit B is due to wake up any second. What are you doing for breakfast?
I don't know... toast?
Toast is a start. What should you put on the toast?
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I have to put something on the toast?
Didn't you graduate with honors? Just pour some cereal. In a bowl. First cereal. And then add milk. To the bowl.
I'm so glad I have you.

It's not that I'm like powerfully torn in two opposing directions.

I am a total blank. I just truly do. not. know.

This isn't Sophie's Choice. This is Office Space.

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