So I'm reading some dooce.com on this lovely, rainy, glorious day off. I started reading this site a couple weeks ago and I did what any terrible reader does with books: I read the most recent entry and then jumped all the way back to the beginning to begin reading it in full, which has been taking up most of my online life because dooce has been blogging for 11 years. It's been a pretty fantastic journey with Heather B. Armstrong so far and I've just completed reading the birth story for her second child.
Now here's where I have some problems. When I read and become extremely involved with the characters/people involved; I am right there with them and not just in the sense that I can relate, oh no, it all sticks with me even when I'm not reading. I read "A Series of Unfortunate Events" and then suddenly had people out to get me and the secrets of the sugar bowl. Seriously, I wandered around my day-to-day life thinking suspicious thoughts about every stranger I saw and that I would find the missing Quagmire triplet while on my lunch break.
So I just got through a birthing story and I find myself thinking, "Maybe I should put on a bra or a robe before my fiance and his friend get back from the gym? Hell no! I'm pregnant and I can do whatever I want because I'm growing a real live person in my uterus!" It wasn't until I started reading dooce that I even entertained the thought of having babies. Yet here I am, justifying my lazy indecency because I'm incubating an imaginary human. That, my friends, is what my brain is capable of...and why I do not read scary stories.
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