“Is that a dead bug?” Jill asks, squinting.
“Where?”
“Right there, under the lamp.”
I answer, “Oh, that. Yeah.”
“Why is it there?”
“I put it there.”
“But why did you put it there?” she persists.
“Because I wanted to put it somewhere where the boys wouldn’t mess with it, and where you wouldn’t see it?”
“Uh-huh…”
“…because I want to take a picture of it.”
“You want to take a picture. Of a dead bug.”
“I think it’s a stinkbug.”
Bill finishes trying on a new pair of jeans I bought for him and hands them back to me with his approval. He stands in front of the mirror, glorious in his pantlessness, and fashions his shirt into a makeshift bodysuit.
J: “That’s attractive! I think you should wear a catsuit version of that to work!”
B: “Like a unitard!”
J: “Yeah, emphasis on tard…”
The contents of my pockets are as follows:
J: “Are you even chewing your biscuit? Because you keep making this… face when you swallow. My god, you’re a dog. Get it all down! Quick!”
Jill made biscuits last night. And true, she may have chewed and tasted hers, but hey…
…biscuits.
“You know what the weirdest part about shitting in your own hand would be??”
*Blink*
“How heavy it would feel.”
“Uhhhno. I don’t think that would be the weirdest part about shitting in your own hand.”
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