7/2/12
It is 10 pm and just as I sat down to write, Miles was handed to me. Apparently he is wide awake and super interested in pulling the cords from the laptop, grabbing the screen over and over and wailing until I put him on my lap, whereupon he attempts to write his version of the great American novel. Ah yes, and there it is - the possible culprit for his agitation is spewed forth in what looks like regurgitated breast milk and possibly broccoli and smells like rancid tofu. Being a writer of sorts is infinitely easier when typing with one's left hand, covered in toddler vomit. I should bottle this shit and sell it as pterodactyl repellent.
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