One of the worst parts of going domestic is that you don’t have any funny stories to tell. Yea, you can tell cutesy kid tales, but ain’t no single friends gonna do much more than nod impatiently at those. At best. How about my shower drain is clogged? They fucked up my cable bill? My neighbors are sniffing downward at the congregation of unraked leaves praying at the curb? I paid 20 dollars to a babysitter today so she could watch my kids for an hour and a half so my wife could tank up before the urban Burning Man that is Sex and the City. I made myself a tortilla with taco sauce, shredded mozzarella cheese and smoked turkey, and the kids had microwave hot dogs. After I threw the dishes in the sink, I patted myself on the back and failed to relax in the lazyboy- one nameless girl had a load in her pants and was oddly not enjoying the sensation. Bribes were made and blackmailed resolved, and with two miracles in bed I watched while a third leaped high into an indoor sky to swat a party store balloon and landed hard enough to send my newly purchased needle skidding across my 17 dollar gatefold Electric Eels record like a diamond-fine pebble across an EB White lake. I no longer have the energy for anger.

Please come to the bar with tales of heroic gustatory prowess and deep sea holy divers. Currently, I am defeated. Tomorrow is another day.