it keeps growing and i can feel it breathe, i have been trying to tolerate you

I think I want a kid.

My own kid, I mean. Don’t go shoving Styrofoam peanuts into little Johnny’s mouth thinking I want you to ship me your dirty little snot-nosed child because I’ll write “refused” on the package and send it back to you so fast and, besides, how the hell did you get my address?

So I think I want to have a kid.

But not because I have an empty space in my life that I want to fill. And not because I have some subconscious desire to procreate or spread my seed or need help with the lawn or whatever. Although, now that you brought it up, I guess you’re right; the world really could use a little more of me in it.

But I digress.

No, I think I want to have a kid because I really, really want to get me one of them neck tattoos. Cursive print, so it’s practically illegible and you have to get super close to read it. And duh, I want it right above the collar line so you can see it clearly over my navy Dickies while I’m changing your oil. And I’m pretty sure that kind of self expression has to be a baby’s name or the tattoo artist will expect a tip.

Here’s a haiku I wrote at work the other day:

locking the stall door
lets me know it’s occupied
so i don’t walk in.

Food for thought, off-white Chuck Taylors.