I had an epiphany when getting up early for my Sunday shift. I realized that I hate the sun. Yes; the sun. It's evil. It's cruel. It's bright and it shines through my windows and even when I am trying to go back to sleep, once I'm awake and that damn sun is streaming in, it's so hard to get back to sleep and have it be restful. I blame the sun for all my fatigue and stress. THE SUN IS AT FAULT, PEOPLE. We should revolt.
Only if we did that, we wouldn't have vegetables and fruits and summers and WATERMELON and swimming pools and life would kind of suck. Plus -- oh, shit. Vampires.
I take it back.
No revolt today. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe when I'm safely dead.
Secondly, I've come to the conclusion that when somebody comes up to you with bright, beaming smiles and rosy cheeks and perfect hair and ohgodyouhateher and she says, "I'm pregnant!!!!!!" (yes, with all the exclamation marks), what she's really saying is, "Save me. I'm miserable. I sleep too much. Then I sleep too little. My stomach never feels quite right. I'm craving food that everyone tells me isn't good for the baby. Everyone is suddenly a baby expert. Everyone watches what goes into my mouth. I'm everybody's property all of a sudden and my husband complains because I'm too sore/tired/cranky/hungry/whiney/in desperate need of love, affection, and pampering. The kids are annoying and I think I still love them but I'm not sure anymore because seriously, hit me with a nerf bat one more time and you're going to the orphanage. And if you don't understand this plea I'm going to break down and cry after we're done talking because NOBODY UNDERSTANDS ME. Oh, and this hair? Totally faked with a visit to the salon. And these cheeks? Blush, baby. Blush."
Now, whenever somebody tells me that they are expecting, I'm going to give them a sympathy card, many pats on the back, long-suffering sighs, and understanding looks.
I hear pregnancy is bliss. I think this part of pregnancy happens about a year after the baby is born and our memories are mysteriously wiped clean and replaced with ones that glitter and gleam and beckon temptingly. I'm pretty sure this is the work of aliens. Or at least the FBI. Or the CIA. Or maybe George Washington. I don't know, BUT IT IS AN EVIL PLOT AND I WILL NOT BE SO GULLIBLE, ALIENS. I WILL KNOW THE TRUTH.
I'd make an awesome X-Files person-thing. I, too, will always search for the truth. It's out there. Somewhere. Possibly in my food.