You’d think that I would be satisfied

Cake Woman and I went to the MIA, where, unlike when I went by myself, we were not followed by a herd of security guards. Then we hit the Electric Fetus. I was unable to prevent myself from purchasing Fiona Apple, Laura Veirs, and Matson Jones. Then we went to the Bulldog. Cake Woman bought me Delerium Tremens and mini corn dogs. She had a birthday thing with her quasi fam at five, so I came home to work on my freelance web thing and ended up babysitting Noah and his three bowel movements for four hours. I wasn’t able to eat the leftover lentil soup that I heated up because it was the exact color of the things that Noah play-doh factorized into his diapers.

You have no messages.

Whoever recorded that with the emphasis on no is a sick person.

On a happy note, Noah and I sang at least three thousand verses of Old MacDonald. Highlights included all the old favorites as well as monkeys, snakes, and a pterodactyl. We are fucking awesome.

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