Birth Control to Major Tom

What an awesome year it's been for weaktoast. I've not written a single word, and the only person who's missed my rampant, senseless blogging is IDK, my BFF Jill.
As Jill knows, my computer is broken and I don't have internet access and I don't care enough about her blog-reading needs to blog from the library. Today, however, I am babysitting my friend Bex's baby, the world's cutest boy-child, Mikey. He's lovely. He's sleeping. I am certain that any moment he will sprout horns and the wings of a demon, leap out of his bouncy chair, and circle the ceiling, breathing fire and raining down showers of acid-drool.

I suck at babies.

Allow me to be clear: I do not suck babies, nor do I suck[le] at them the way mosquitoes withdraw from my bank of sweet life-giving blood. I suck at babies the way some people suck at surgery. Unfortunately, there is no school to weed people like me out of the birthing pool, so I am free to reproduce at will--or in this case, to watch after someone else's reproductive...er, produce. It doesn't help that I got no more than four hours of sleep last night. Also, my loinfruit climbed into bed with me at some point, suffering from a nightmare. This morning she confessed that said nightmare was nothing more than a fabricated excuse to come interrupt my sleep and smack me about the face while she slept.

Immediately upon waking, I shuffled to the kitchen to take my Lexapro. Perhaps I ought to have taken two.