R-E-S-P-E-C-T (Means Dry Faces).

I realized that my last blog was kind of personal, and did not follow my theme of having some kind of message, or story that might be interesting to others. Sorry.
On a contradictory note, a three year-old spat on my face the other day at work. And I found out that neither Chapters or The Oakville Centre for the Performing Arts is hiring. Life is a bitch.

Welly welly well,
On another, more depressing topic, I visited my grandma in the hospital today. She is in with a broken wrist, and may require surgery in weeks to come. I told her I would pray for her, but I forgot. I don't know that it would count, either way.
Across the room (though only separated by about a foot, the darned room was so small) was a very old and sickly-looking woman being visited by an old man. They were speaking what I believe was Italian, which I realized must come in handy in a hospital - to speak another language, that is. It would be such a relief to be able to have a conversation in a room with three other patients and not have to worry about privacy. Although, keeping bodily functions private did not seem to be this woman's priority; she belched like you would not believe. She sounded as though she was about to be sick, and I thought I might be, too. Poor old thing, though, perhaps she had uncontrollable stomach issues.

I'd like to grow old, but keep my dignity. I figure I am owed this, as I have learned that it is impossible to give birth and be left with any. I will spare you all the horrifying details, but know this; if childbirth is a miracle, God is a sadist.
Oh! Speaking of birth, I came up with a short story idea about a sperm bank, and two nurses running an under-the-counter operation selling sperm to women who want their children to have better qualities than their husbands.
Harsh, right?
Do you know what else is harsh?
having a three year-old spit on your face.

Get used to it.