I eat, I sleep, I defecate, and I play. When I want attention, I just cry and they come right in and show me the love. I mumble a couple of words (really just sounds) and they act like I’ve invented the cure for malaria. Not a bad life when you think about it. The pizza will come. The pizza will come.
Day Three: Is that pizza? Smells like pizza. Hello? You know, sometimes these guys are all over me like nobody’s business, random people show up and hold me like I’m a football, this one guy thinks he’s God’s gift to James Taylor. Other times they wrap me up like a mummy and stick me in this basket and away I go, to hang out with the other prisoners. But this is the worst! They’re having pizza, but I’ll tell you right now that no one, and I mean no one will offer me a slice. Hey Ava, how about some more of that white goopy stuff? Yeah, sure, that’s exactly what I want. You really love your baby? Get me some Italian Beef, Daddy-o.
So, it’s been a few days, and one thing I can tell you is that my parents are into my action like nobody’s beeswax. They are all over my sweet white potato-shaped personhood. Seriously. I let out a wail, and they jump. It’s awesome. But I still can’t order Domino’s. Soon, my friends. Soon. And then we’ll be awash in Cheesy Garlic Bread. I wonder where that desire comes from? Come to think of it, I could use a Sierra Nevada.
So, I’m crying like a … I don’t know, like a something. I don’t have words yet, give me a freakin’ break. Anyway, I’m giving it all I got. But does anyone seem concerned? Doesn’t look like it. I could have just gotten my wallet stolen, and everyone’s smiling at me like I’m an idiot. For Pete’s sake, what’s wrong with these people?