Sigh. I really want to be six again. I don’t want to care about water softener salt, or figure out which eye doctor takes my insurance, or be responsible for having Lula’s tires checked. I want to make a fort out of couch cushions and eat cheese and pickles. I want my dad to call me Scooter, and I want my mom to baby me. I really, really don’t want to be responsible for anything. And yet somehow I’ve wound up with not only myself, but a car, a house, and a small animal kingdom.
Shoot. I’m going to go play with a puppy and read Calvin and Hobbes.