It’s happened, you guys.
I think I’ve finally made it as a blogger!
I don’t even know where to start, q1605.
Should I comment first on how you used the incorrect form of your/you’re?
Or maybe I should point out how awesomely creative and not at all ironic you are for inserting a poop reference into your comment about my post on, well…poop.
And then there’s the content of your comment; you so appreciatively imply that you’re a longtime reader of Psychobabble, and for that I thank you from the depths of my colon.
I have no idea why it took so long for me to attract the attention of an honest-to-goodness troll in need of some quality hugs and psychotherapy, but I won’t speculate.
I’ll just accept the honor and keep right on blogging about the same old crap.
I talk about poop a lot.
Freud would say this means I am stuck in the anal stage of childhood development, and I am not sure that’s too far off the mark. Let’s just say that The Beatles were wrong when they said that happiness was a warm gun. No, no, it’s an empty colon.
Since Brian and I get up for work at different times in the morning, we don’t get to see each other until we get home from work in the evening. We supplement our communication needs with email and chats during the day.
me: You know, because of this bloating, I’ve had to get up and pee TWICE each night since Saturday
me: My sleep hasn’t been good
Brian: Have you asked Dr. Internet what to do?
me: No…but it’s just going to tell me that I am dying. Or pregnant. Besides, I pooped this morning, so that’s a plus!
me: From 1-10, it was a 4
me: 10 being MASSIVE, EPIC poo, you know, that breaks the water
me: Right! So at least my poo wasn’t a 1, which would be like two little nuggets…plop, plop.
Brian: Let’s change the subject.
me: Why? This is awesome! …This could be a blog post!