“Hey, um … are we ever going to have … uh, dinner again?”
Dearest parasite that I am incubating, please stop taking every last ounce of my energy away. Sure, use what you need to grow into a normally functioning and otherwise adorable mini-human, but me thinks you’re getting greedy and power hungry these days. You exhaust me. I can barely move sometimes. There are breaks of clarity where I think, “I should clean this living room! Now!”, but within a few moments of effort I am compelled by the couch monster to return to lounging. If I had more couch monster fighting juice stored up, I could win that battle, but you keep taking it.
Not that I don’t love you and all that mushy perfect mother to be crap.
But seriously, kid, you’re killing me here.
Your soon to be uncle told me he is going to mutiny soon if I don’t start feeding this family again. I don’t cook dinner. I don’t even think up things other people should cook for dinner. I clearly don’t go to the grocery store. Reasons? You.
I also don’t clean things. My desk is a disaster. The office is trashed. There are so many finger prints on the glass coffee table panels that CSI would have a hard time deciding who murdered who in this place. The dust. Ugh. I don’t even want to talk about dust.
I want to change all of these things. I want to be up and moving and planning and cooking and shopping and cleaning and cleaning and cleaning. I want to.
And you don’t.
Come on, wee little fetus, make a deal with me. I’ll lounge around most (I know, how tragic and difficult) of the time if you’ll give me the occasional break from esophagus searing heartburn, dry heaves, and the inability to keep my eyes open through an entire rerun of Deadliest Catch so I can feed your soon to be family something other than … well, whatever it is they’ve been eating … I clearly have no idea and perhaps take a Swiffer to the entertainment center.
I think that’s fair.