Is it sad that I've been working on that title all day? Or is it sadder that I've actually been planning out the
life of my one (1) future child that will hopehopehopefully a boy. I was thinking of names all morning, playing
around with "Henry" as a first, middle, or even a three-quarters name. I haven't even thought of what I would
name a girl. Or even considered the possibility of what my "husband" would like. All I know is that Henry is
going to be somehow involved. Dammit, if I have to name her Henrietta, so be it. I really love that name and
not just because of my own savvy self or the excitement of having my own "namesake." To me, the name
"Henry" has this air of dignity and obscurity about it - despite being the name of at least eight kings of England,
and a few in Germany. Hell, not in the present, am I right?

   A daughter, man. What if I have a daughter? Besides hoping that she'll never be like me, I hope she's a little
weirdo. There'll be no pink bag toting little child of mine. However, I think it'd be interesting to have gay son. A
gay son named Henry. Yeah, that'd be supa-fly.

   Boy or female deliquent, I'm going to be weening my kid(s) on the They Might Be Giants, such as the "Here
Come the ABCs" and "No!" albums. Y'know, Their kiddie-stuff. Yet, stuff that Mommy could really get into, as
well.

   Which brings us to our next topic - the endearment, "Mom." Hey, if my kids would rather call me by my name
(hopefully it'll be Henry!!) I won't get worked up about it, because, in the end, what does it really matter? Sure,
that old saying: "I never knew hold much a heart could hold, until someone called me Mommy." Yeah, that's
sweet/sentimental/kyoooot and all, but being an Overlord over my children isn't what I'd like to achieve out of
life. I guess my psychological reasoning comes from how my da—Doug, let's call him, just for sake of
conversation—treated me when I would even jokingly call him Douglas. Did he really hate his name that much?
(Because he does the same thing to his wife.) Or does he have such respect issues that he can't even take a
joke? My father is aggressive in achieving what he wants—lazy, but aggressive, if that makes sense. By
aggressive, of course I mean verbally abusive, threatening, la-la-dee-da... The same old story you've read in
loads of blogs by this time, so it should come to no surprise to joo that I do not want to end up like a
unemployed slob who has never even tried for a driver's license. It's not my life to lead.

   I just hope I have a better impact on my children.

   And have I mentioned to you how freaked out I am about Growing Up? I mean, just last night I had a dream
where I overdosed by tripping acid and dousing myself with hydrogen peroxide, died, and came back as a
ghost. I believe this is just a spin-off of my thoughts on how people would react if I just suddenly...keeled over,
to put it lightly. These thoughts were constantly in my head when I was going through my more depressing
stages of teenagedom - around eighth grade.

   
   (Looking back - I could understand why.)

   The dream was pretty strange and I'll try to repeat the basic story line to you before they're lost in the
confines of my diminishing brain.

   I was in the room that I live in now, facing the door and cupping two or three orange pills in my hand. I don't
know how I got these pills, but there they were, cupped in my hand. The orange color was rubbing off on my
palm like badly advertised M&M's. The pills, which was acid, were so tiny, but instead of the classic 'M' and 'M'
stamp, written in black on the orange coat was a long and complicated chemical formula that I couldn't make
out. Even in the haze of a dream I couldn't figure out the complexities of chemistry - or how it could fit on a
bite-sized pill, it seemed. I downed the alternative form of acid and my mother somehow handed to me - and
all the way from Wisconsin - a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide - stuff I used to overuse as a kid to clean out
my ears. I thought it would be some real toe-tappin' fun to mix the acid with the ear-cleaner, so, amazingly, I
did. End scene. New scene - I am madly frolicking on the steps of a university and some twenty-somethings are
"WTFing" to each other. Secretly, I am, myself. Thennn... I die, but I don't see this.

   Next shot I am being pulled out of the ground of my dream-house's floor by some mystical being that I, again,
do not see. I see my sneakers flying off admidst the gravel. I can only assume that Margie, Mike, Krysty, and
her siblings cannot see this metaphysical rip in their domain. I can touch objects, but it seems that I cannot
touch them, the family I live with now. I carry coffee that looks like sour cream and salsa mixed together to
Mike, but I don't think anyone realizes who is giving it to him. Then, I overhear someone's conversation about
Margie's exhusband, some guy named Ted (in real-life, he doesn't exist). But apparently, this dead guy Ted
was shot in the...head and he is haunting their - our - home.

   I begin to search for him and he appears out of nowhere - behind me. He has bandage covering his eyes and
as he removes it, I blanche, already knowing that I'll be seeing the wounds. And the gaping, jellied concave is
still there, but mysteriously it is healing itself - but not correctly. The hole reknits itself, and the face is as
smooth as an anime character. Just as well because Ted the Dead Guy has two cartoon eyes to match. Ted
hates Margie's new beau, Mike (realrealreal life guy), and constantly plays pranks on him, which may explain
the strange Taco Bell coffee.

   I swear there was more to that dream, some kind of "ta-dah!" ending, but I can't remember for the life of me.
I was too late...

   So sums up my little bout of fear and excitement for the future. Ta-dah!