Hello. You may have forgotten me. I'm the guy who's apparently going to be changing your diapers 12-14 times a day in just a few short weeks. I've been meaning to write.
Usually it would go like this. I would sit down at the computer to work on work. And I would work, and then I would hate the work. And then I would become afraid of the computer and I would refuse to be in the same room with it unless someone came with me and all the lights were on. And then I would pray to things: gods, totems, cats, scientology, for the ability to string together a useful series of words. And nothing would happen.
This would go on for about 12 hours and then I would think, I should write to the kids. They're probably totally lost without my panic stricken missives about life outside their little goo globe. But then I would think, what do I tell them I've been up to? They'll be so disappointed and disillusioned that begging a keyboard to 'work with you' does not result in progress towards the goals one sets for one's self when one finds out that life as they know it is about to irrevocably change. I felt like you two were a fuse that got lit almost 8 months ago that would finally compel me to take a last stab and explode into greatness. Instead, I was a dud.
The fact that we're here talking, the three of us, should tell you that the heavens have opened and once again begun to shower me with the idiotic and inane ramblings that I depend on. I'm not saying they're good, but at least they're back. Being showered with brilliance was too much to ask. Now, instead of waking up in a pool of flop sweat and curling into a fetal position until noon, I'm sitting all alone at the computer like a big boy. And whatever else happens or doesn't, I'll have a draft of my work ready to hand in before you get here. Assuming you stick to the schedule. Which you won't. If you end up with excess mom DNA you'll be early, well dressed, and have next week's homework assignment. If you end up with extra me, I should be good until June.
Tomorrow: Breastfeeding class, and dunking on the mystery goal.
Novel: Part C (assume there's H parts)
Dunking: Mystery goal raises hopes
French: I learned the word for shoulder last week, but I've already forgotten it. Luckily no one ever discusses their shoulder.