My favorite poem at the moment:
Rose are red.
Violets are blue.
I’m a schizophrenic,
And so am I.
You guys, I’m going to be brutally honest: I’m in a really weird place. Usually, I can find some humor in my fatigue, dog poop, kids’ pee, and not showering for days on end, but y’all . . . my sense of humor is gone, and I think my kids took it.
I have a nice red bruise in the middle of my forehead where I smashed it into the corner of their bookcase yesterday. It hurts when I push on it.
S and L have been sick all week, which means they haven’t slept all week, which means I haven’t slept all week. Now I’m getting sick.
If comedy stems from anger or sadness, I totally have a problem — I’ve moved past anger and sadness right into the numb zone. It feels like high school. That’s also a no comedy zone.
If my life were a movie, Goldie Hawn would play me and that movie would be called Overboard, and it wouldn’t even be the entire movie just this scene. This is where I am, friends.
Love you all long time.
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