HIPPO BRIGADE

Nobody talk to me, I’m an idiot.

I tried to have a conversation the other day.

You know, like with words and stuff.

It didn’t go so well.

Its like I’m forgetting how to communicate.

“So, Beckey now that you’re a mom of two, how do you feel?”

“You’re right. I do have two kids. It’s like I have a pair of kids! How cute is that? Speaking of pairs, did I ever tell you about my purple socks I got for Christmas?”

“No.”

“I think my Grandma got them for me. She usually just gives me a rolled up five dollar bill in a secret hand shake. And I’m pretty sure that before it goes into my hand, it was in her bra because it’s always warm and dewy, and smells like Gold Bond. So anyways, she got me these royal purple fuzzy socks, and every time I wear them I feel like royalty. But not all of me feels royal. Just my feet. And ankles. Maybe because the color itself implies royalty, or maybe it’s because they are so plush and wonderful that every time I take a step it feels like I’m crushing commoners. I think everyone deserves to feel like royalty, sometimes. Don’t you agree?”

“Ummm, sure. But I don’t think you answered my question.”

“Wait, but didn’t you ask me about what makes me feel special? I thought about bedazzling my cooter to feel special, like Jennifer Love Hewitt, but that would require me to visit the waxer, and I’m never going back there. I told you what they did to me, right?”

“Um…Beckey. I asked you about being a mother.”

“That’s weird, because I have no recollection of that. Cheeto?”

“No thanks.”

See? I have a problem with human interaction.

I blame the baby.

He’s waking me up at night, and good gravy, he’s a month old now, can’t he sleep through the night already?

It’s like he doesn’t even care that when asked a serious question I start to talk about socks, or transforming my vajango into a fancy display of jewels.

He’s so inconsiderate.