I wish I could tell you that I’ve spent the past month and a half cultivating a surplus of rollicking material to bestow upon my modest readership, but mostly I’ve been using Flickchart. Also moving to a new apartment and accompanying my wife to ultrasound appointments. But mostly using Flickchart. I. Can’t. Stop.
I have never been addicted to anything this badly. I love randomized, simple (most of the time) choices and agonizingly gradual organization. And I love thinking about movies, far more than actually viewing them. It has not gotten old for me at all, and unfortunately my fondness for the site is preventing me from accomplishing anything remotely creative on my part. Not to say that I ever spent a great deal of my time composing sonnets or designing groundbreaking websites, but shit, I used to put up a blog entry now and then. I don’t say this to blight Flickchart or to wish it away – if the site ever folded, I’m fairly certain I’d embark on a new lifestyle of wandering the streets, hygiene long neglected, entreating strangers to allow me to fellate them in exchange for presenting me with a tiny poster of “Ulee’s Gold” alongside another tiny poster of “Caddyshack 2”, and that’s after I’d finally stopped convulsing and vomiting uncontrollably – but of late I do wish I liked it a little less. Scolding a thing for being so in tune with your personality and desires: what’s the right adjective for that?
Anyway, the baby is still fine, and I don’t know if I’ve even mentioned this yet, but it has a penis, thus assuring him the ability to more easily urinate in his parents’ faces while they are changing him as well as ensuring him a decent job once he leaves our home, which will hopefully take place immediately following the celebration of his 18th birthday, an event I feel will be most efficiently expedited by frisbeeing the Xbox 1080 game we graciously gifted to him out onto the front lawn, then rapidly changing the locks and responding to his subsequent knocks and pleas with noncommital phrases such as “quien es?” and “No comprendo”.
Regarding the future face-pissing-into, as I understand it there are miniscule tents available in baby penis camping equipment stores everywhere that you can place atop Junior’s junk to curtail an eyesocket brimming with errant weiner-ade, also known as “pee-pee teepees”, a brand that I doubt does much to assuage continuing Native American bitterness over that whole “stole your land” thing, but in the long run is probably better than calling them, say, “Snookums Dong Chapeaus”, or “Stop Pissing in My Fucking Face, You Goddamned Son of a Bitch”.
Whiz through that, smart guy! I really don’t like it when babies urinate into my face, so I’m encouraged by the existence of the Pee-pee Teepee. I think it’s probably a better solution than my previously planned and in hindsight rather knee-jerk reaction of spastically defecating on his chest in retaliation and leaving him there to think about his insolence and filthy habits while I go into the next room to mumble profanities to myself and use Flickchart. The Pee-Pee Teepee: I’m for it. Quality products for a quality, if frequently disgusting, world.
Despite all my talk of crapping on and bellowing obscenities at him, I can’t wait to finally meet this kid. My feelings on the whole thing have gone from shock, to numbness, to deluded numbness, to actually forgetting we were having one, to remembering we were having one and panicking, to disbelief, to somewhat accepting justification, back to panic, to curiosity, to grave concern, to drinking, to forgetting we were having it again, to soul-searching, to amusement, to nagging worry, to mild excitement, to extreme excitement, back to panic, and now finally optimistic curiosity with a twinge and a half of panic, and that seems to be about where it’s levelling out, which is good. I have visited friends who recently had triplets (!), so I can now say that I’ve held an infant without dropping it into a pen full of ravenous pigs or driving a pencil through its fontanelle. I even sucessfully provided said infant with sustenance via a bottle, and supported his head, no thanks to his seemingly vestigial neck. Is there something pregnant moms could eat that might result in less worthless baby necks? It’s like a strand of cooked spaghetti scotch-taped to a candlepin bowling ball. I’m just saying there’s room for improvement. He could potentially decapitate himself simply by vigorously disagreeing with something. Is there no special neck-bolstering baby food available for purchase? I’ve done no research on any of this, barring when I google “pee-pee teepee”. That’s literally all I’ve done to prepare myself for this journey.
Near the end of my drive home from work tonight I had to stop and help an elderly British man jumpstart his jalopy. He actually walked out into the road, waving his hands, to get me to stop, which was wise of him given that my first instinct when approached by strangers, particularly elderly ones, is to do whatever it takes to extricate myself from their field of vision, half-smiling apologetically as if to say “I’d love to help you, but I seem to be moving very rapidly in the opposite direction”. But I could not avoid this man without striking him with my vehicle, so I powerlessly allowed him access to my car battery, and to his credit he both had jumper cables and knew how to use them, possessions and qualities I lacked. He dithered and jiggered his way to a newly functional vehicle, was nice enough not to club me to death with a tire iron while nattering on about the Queen and tea biscuits, and I got to feel good about helping an old man against my will. It helped a lot that he was British; it made him seem more like a cartoon person, which sort of put me at ease, even during those desperate few minutes while I tried to make it seem like it was the car’s fault that I couldn’t figure out how to pop the hood. Everything about the whole scenario was so foreign to my normal day that I’m almost guaranteed to have a weird dream about it tonight.
A short one for tonight to ease back into it. I will forge ahead, Flickchart and prenatal concerns be damned!