February 04, 2004 @ 5:39 p.m.
Let's Hope I Never Breed.

Well, the problems/situations alluded to in the last entry seem to have solved themselves, at least for the most part, which is nice. I like it when my problems do that; I wish they'd do it more often.

The other day someone who'd known me for about two hours made the observation "if you were a guy, you'd get slapped. Frequently, and hard." Trying not to let on that he'd made my day, I said "why do you say that?" To which I got the reply, "well, you're a bit of a sleaze, aren't you?"

It was a nice welcome back to the world of the living for me.

I've either been at work of late, or working on one of my numerous and mysterious projects. Translated, this means that I've either been a smiley, sweet, fresh-faced librarian type, or a jaded and perverted porn-hound writerly type who keeps killing off important characters because she just can't help herself. Someday, I'm going to suffer for the all the facets of my personality; expect to find me curled up in a ball rocking back and forth, drooling and muttering to myself "It's 'come' not 'cum', you fuckers!" over and over again.

I think the facade has already begun to crack. One of my co-workers calls me "the butter-wouldn't-melt pervert".

In other news, I spent several days a week or so back getting vomited upon, sneezed all over and very nearly pooped on. No, I wasn't at some sort of happy pervert camp, I was down in Gippsland looking after my niece and nephew. Alexandra threw up on me twice, once completely over my jeans, and Myles sneezed all over me (a very voluminous sneeze, no less), pooped in the bath while I was trying to wash him, and woke me up at 7am by playing with his toy hammer right next to my head. This is after he'd woken me up crying twice the night before, so I got a combined total of five hours sleep, which is about 10 hours less than I need every night. I was not the happiest of chapettes. He also made me play "a bat a ball" outside in the bright sunlight with him for several hours, and wouldn't let me go inside even when he got distracted by the little girl playing in the next door neighbours' yard (he's such a budding heterosexual). He also decided I was really, really good at giving horsey rides and kept asking for them, his sweet angelic little face beaming up at me. I couldn't say no, but Chrrrist, boucing around a squirming, giggling two-year-old on your back for for long periods of time does nothing for your back problems. At least I perfected my whinnying technique.

But despite all that, I had a great time, and still want to have kids of my own someday. Proof that I am completely mental.

That said, I don't know if I'm entirely cut out to be a parent. I think I lack some of the basic understanding of children that you're apparently supposed to have before you undertake the role. Whilst trying to make Alexandra go to sleep one afternoon, I started singing to her. The problem with that was that I couldn't remember any nursery rhymes, so I started singing Peaches songs to her instead. Her favourite was "Fuck the Pain Away," (as judged by amount of smiling and nodding), but she also liked "Shake Yer Dix" enough to try and sing along:

Me: Are the motherfuckers ready for the fatherfuckers? Are the fatherfuckers ready for the motherfuckers? Are the motherfuckers ready for the fatherfuckers?"

Her: GUP!

Okay, so maybe I couldn't bring myself to swear at a four-month-old baby, so I substituted "duck" for "fuck". Deal with it, motherduckers. My basic point remains the same.

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