Not Giving Up

Welp. I've made an appointment with Dr. Small Guns. Consult is on December 10.

I spent the morning in my hometown city, where I am stopping over after a vacation to attend my friend's mother's funeral. This morning I met my friend and her small kids in a new snazzy park with fancy fake grass and fun tunnels and hills. While my friend chatted with other adult women I hid in tunnels, hung out on climbing walls, and served as a comfortable sled going down slides.

"You're such a monkey!" I said to the baby, who can barely walk but who scooted up the climbing wall like a rhesus macaque, if macaques had my hand shadowing their tush the whole time.

"I am not," she informed me.

"Okay," I said. "Then you're a beast. Do you think you're a beast?"

She leaned a chub arm over the top of the climbing wall and gazed moodily into the distance, like it was her turn on watch in the Napoleonic Wars.

"Yes," she said at length. So beast she is.

So, you know what? Fuck you, universe, for not letting me have my own beast.

I'm not giving up.

Yet.