When someone compliments me on here, my gut reaction is to say, “YEAH OKAY AND WHAT IF I’M A CATFISH?!”
…I am not a catfish.
Why am I like this?
I woke up this morning with my 4-year-old in my face, nose to nose, asking why people have skeletons.
Nobody:
4-year-old: Can I call people peasants at school?
I am basic white bread.
…maybe buttered if I’m feeling fancy.
I could probably be lured into a white van with no windows with guacamole.
…or queso.
…or salsa.
…or dill pickles.
…or Jeff Goldblum.
…or, hell, any kind of cheese at all.
I ain’t picky.
My 4-year-old Just ran down the hallway yelling “CHEESES CRISIS.”
Oops. Maybe I’ve yelled Jesus Christ one too many times.
That scene in Pulp Fiction where Vincent revives Mia by stabbing her in the chest with an adrenaline shot, except it’s me on a Saturday morning when my kid shoves his finger in my nostril to wake me up.