Sorry, baby: Not. Even. One.
Last night I dreamt of Joe the Plumber, er, I mean "fucker".
I dreamt I shared a whiskey with Obama post victory.
There was the one about work when all those moms died.
Many (too many, really, for fucks sake) about Chris leaving me.
But not a single slumber-fueled-film about the baby. It feels odd to me, bad even. Odder and badder than I have been able to admit, in fact.
So, kid, do your mom a solid AND COME OUT ALREADY! Show me that you're alright and the reason I don't need to dream about you is because there's nothing to worry about, k?
No comments:
Post a Comment