“Baby fat?”

“Excuse me?”

“Is that baby fat?”

“.. no? I’m just big boned, really.”

“Your perfume. Are you wearing Baby Phat?”

“OHHHH. Um, no.”

“Smell good. Like Baby Phat.”

“Thanks .. ?”

Speaking of fat babies, I got the dreaded “So when are you going to give your mother some nice grandbabies?” question last night. I was too zoned out on the cold-fighting cocktail I invented earlier that evening – water, T3s, two dusty mystery pills I found in a suitcase and what I now think was a Skittle – to answer the question appropriately, but my mother (bless her crazy soul) piped up with raucous and a hearty “oh god no!” My mother is many things (most of them crazy), but she is fully on board with Team No Babies. This inability to relate to children isn’t some sort of cool hipster front I put on; it’s one of the few things I inherited from my mother. Given the other options, I’ll take it.

I am still sick, but at work. I’ve got too much to do (and 5 new people for some reason; what the fuck) to stay at home again, and I am completely sick of my bed. I bought some drugs this morning that should keep me propped up until 5 or someone forces me home, but I plan to sequester myself away for much of the day to do project work. I think. Wait, where am I?