I like when my posts provoke a response...

That kid post certainly got some of you out of the woodwork. I like that. I'm not like fancy Erik, so I don't have a site meter on my site, and I really have no idea what my regular traffic is.

In law school, that was a source of consternation for me. Now that I'm working 11 to 12 hours a day, refreshing everything I learned for the Bar, explaining minute details of Prescriptive Easements, the Statutory and Common Law Codified Easements by Implication, Easements Appurtenant with their requisite Statute of Frauds and Deed Execution Formalities, and referencing Burdine v. Sewell, modernizing phrases like "wherein the owner of the dominant tenement holds incorporeal rights to the servient tenement" (actually, that's a pretty easy concept to grasp, but it sounds good and abstract), and picking through 12 pages of a case before I decide that because I really don't give a hoot about the Florida Marketable Title Act (The FMTA!) Chapter 721 of the Florida Statutes, and I'm not going to address it because 1) I'm bored and 2) I can make a colorable argument why I don't have to talk about it. I've been doing that a lot, lately. Looking at an area of law that I am, frankly, too mentally drained to handle, because it's already 6:30 p.m. and I'm on my 10th straight hour of work, and deciding, "Mmmmm. That's...inapplicable. I'll just throw that case in my 'recycled paper' pile, and I'll probably end up printing the draft of this Memorandum on it..."

Anyway. I have a lot on my mind. Stephen comes in tonight, however! Crazy! He's been gone for four months!

Okay. I'm wayyy off tangent. Focus.

I like when people leave comments. And I'm always surprised how salient everyone's points are. I mean, I shouldn't be. I just always assume that if someone's reading my posts, it's a little Thai girl somewhere, practicing slang English and modern sentence construction. And then when my friends, or e-friends leave comments, I always think, "Huh! There's an intelligent point left by someone who paid my brain a virtually anonymous visit! And left a little pearl of wisdom or truth!"

Like the point that you're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't with having kids. That it'll never be a good time, but if ya do it when it's finally a good time, you're 60, and going to be fertilizer by the time your poor young'uns graduate from High School. It is, however, markedly harder for us gays to "Oops! Have a kid!" (Obviously)

Except if I...never mind. That's one of those thoughts that we keep to ourselves, even here, where we pour out our heart and soul. A kid's gotta leave some recesses of his twisted (not violent or perverted, mind you) mind a mystery.

Or that with little kids, you're very protective of them, until you realize that when they're little, they're made to bounce. What is it, like little kids have about 100 more bones that adults? I can't wait to drop my baby, truthfully. Not intentionally, and I know I'll freak out when I do, but it's got to happen, and honestly? Dropping a baby on a carpeted floor is probably a damn-sight less dangerous than the conditions in which babies were designed to be dropped (Read: the stony-stalactite(mite?) ridden floor of a damp cave, or the cheetah-infested wilds of the African Savannah.)

And I would feel terrible if I gave poor Burt (I think I want a baby named Burt...Britton, Bayson, Bison, Brent, Brenton, Baron, etc. not all the names, but I might choose from those. The baby would be named for Dead Grandma.) brain damage, or made him a paraplegic (or quadriplegic!) But, like I said, babies were made for dropping.

And for having their Skee-Ball balls stolen by horrid little Chuck-E-Cheese kids. Ugh. Chuck-E-Cheese. My idea of hell. I didn't even like it when I was little. In Baltimore, until probably about 1984, we had this place called "Rivertown" that was like a Chuck-E-Cheese, only instead of a scary dancing animatronic mouse, there were scary animatronic singing alligators and crocodiles, and possums, on a stage set to look like a Mississippi Cotton Dock after dusk, in 1876, dripping with Spanish Moss and Cattails, replete with a singing hooker hippopotamus that would barge through the doors of her brothel, and jiggle and shake her large ass and huge cans, and sing like Bessie Smith.

Note to future parents: Not noticing when one's four-year-old has climbed on stage, and is exploring under said hippopotamus' skirts and petticoats, when said hippopotamus lurches into action and begin singing and moving, is a sure way to negligently allow one's child to suffer a permanent and completely rational fear of hydraulic-based animatronic hippo-whore puppets.

On that note, I think it's time to get back to studying for the Federal Bar. Damn you, Southern District!