Ex to the Nth

Its so much less mathematic than it seems. But its still academic, basic Diophantine zoology where M=the dromedary and everyone else=the bison. And it was while my head was swimming with thoughts of evo-devo and alienation and what I might make for dinner when, from the backseat, I received a linguistic bitch slap from a 7 year old. And I don't mind saying -- it was just as painful as any bitch slap I received from an adult, linguistic or otherwise. And I know it sounds like I've been watching too much Bravo when I say that I just don't know how many more beatings my poor heart can take before it won't. Before it just gives it up. And I'm pretty sure they don't make a prosthesis.

I'd like to pat myself on the back and give myself credit for perseverance or some other word meant to mean, "knowing what you're really made of and still going on living like you aren't the camel" but, really now, what are my options? Face transplant and an eating disorder? Add that to a million bucks and a slurpee machine and I'll tattoo this for our second anniversary: "You can take your scrapbook, my good man, and shove it." Except it will be in tribal or Chinese, so I can properly assimilate into the herd.

And when he throws me that single beatific look that says, "I appreciate and respect you and I still feel like you were the rightest prettiest enabler in the whole wide room," well, I won't bite him, not even a little.

I might kick. But only because some things just make my feet want to go, go, go!

And the other one. MUST BE OBEYED. RIGHT NOW. ON PAIN OF LOUDNESS.