There's still an emptiness in my spirit, in my soul.
Yesterday, a pretty young woman asked for a book on pregnancy, and with my characteristic feigned enthusiasm, I swatted the keyboard to kill the usual amount of time before walking her to the six-eighteens.
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(ok. you're right. that was gross. so I deleted it.)
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ok, I'm a pansy for deleting it. i shouldn't let readers control my writing (based on the article here that i haven't finished reading) -- so here is the delete text, but in white, so you need to drag over it to see it.
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And when I handed her one of those, your pregancy, minute-by-minute books, I casually mentioned that we have a "don't let scabies eat your babies" book. "Hmm, where is that? Did you know that your unborn little slacker in there can get scabies. It's because I didn't wash my hands. And the temperature inside you is the perfect incubator for the little buggers."And the look of horror on her face when she dug into her purse to find the bottle antibacterial schmootz, reminded me how much my Colgate-Palmolive and Johnson & Johnson stocks have appreciated this year and how that will help my retirement. And maybe her little brat can absorb that fear right through her bloodstream and clean his hands 100 times a day after he's been spawned. Cha-ching! Man, those margaritas, rocks, no salt, aren't just going to buy themselves.
Normally I would smile and feel my spirit soar like the great eagle. But it only hopped like the tiny frog. I don't know what's wrong, but I need help.
So help me. Help my tiny frog to become a great eagle, again.
