It turns out adrenaline and rainbows will only get you so far, Interwebz. When drunk on happiness, one should really not assume one can climb mountains with a bowling ball wedged between their colon and lungs. If one was foolish enough to attempt such things, one might have a monster back ache, ankles the size of Dick Cheney’s head, and another visit from our dear friend Artemis. Then one might not be able to sit in her desk chair (the same one one has had since middle school and now is totally devoid of any padding) for more than three minutes at a time.
Technically, I guess she’s one and a half. But boy would that previous paragraph be dizzying if one and a half constantly referred to one and a half’s self as one and a half, wouldn’t it?
It’s also possible that one and a half might not have slept so well after yesterday’s overly ambitious agenda. One and a half might be delirious. And stuck writing in the third person after working on one and a half’s proposal for too many consecutive hours.
Which is why one and a half…or maybe it’s two thirds at this point in the pregnancy. I mean, sure the doc says we won’t see the Captain Elbows until October 5th, but the psychic framer one and two thirds met two weeks ago is certain the little bugger will arrive on September 30th. Hell, maybe one and two thirds should actually be referring to herself as one and three quarters.
Does anyone else have a headache?
I know, let’s all just quietly revel in the joy that is NPH making fun of himself and pretend this whole post never happened, k?