"I Thought About Burning Black Painful Rot..."
Day Three of Gus-sitting. This entry is for everyone who's asked me, "How bad could it be?" Well, I'll tell you...
And this has a gross factor, so be prepared. Have you ever heard of projectile vomiting? That was my greatest fear. It no longer is. Because today, the baby "projectiled" from the wrong end. The crap end. I was not aware that there was such a thing as projectile shitting. There is. My arm will attest to it. As will the changing table, the bookshelf, the chair, and various odds and ends.
I am displeased. And, no, I didn't kill the baby. I should have, but I didn't. I am however going to kill my mother. Her only response to the degredation I suffered was, "Well, that's why God made you washable." I am going to stab her in the head, and when the police ask me why, my only response will be: "That's why God made knives."
And now I am going to go read Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived In The Castle, because it's the only thing I can think of that will make me feel less homicidal. I feel quite a bit like Merricat Blackwood at the moment. "...I thought of them rotting away and curling in pain and crying out loud; I wanted them doubled up and crying on the ground in front of me." Or "I am going to put death in all their food and watch them die." And, of course, "I was never sorry when I had thoughts like this; I only wished they would come true." Ergh. I give up.
And this has a gross factor, so be prepared. Have you ever heard of projectile vomiting? That was my greatest fear. It no longer is. Because today, the baby "projectiled" from the wrong end. The crap end. I was not aware that there was such a thing as projectile shitting. There is. My arm will attest to it. As will the changing table, the bookshelf, the chair, and various odds and ends.
I am displeased. And, no, I didn't kill the baby. I should have, but I didn't. I am however going to kill my mother. Her only response to the degredation I suffered was, "Well, that's why God made you washable." I am going to stab her in the head, and when the police ask me why, my only response will be: "That's why God made knives."
And now I am going to go read Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived In The Castle, because it's the only thing I can think of that will make me feel less homicidal. I feel quite a bit like Merricat Blackwood at the moment. "...I thought of them rotting away and curling in pain and crying out loud; I wanted them doubled up and crying on the ground in front of me." Or "I am going to put death in all their food and watch them die." And, of course, "I was never sorry when I had thoughts like this; I only wished they would come true." Ergh. I give up.