I just realized something.

ALL I TALK ABOUT IS SHIT!

Either I am eternally 12 years old, or my life stinks, literally.

Gone are the days when I’d write incredibly erudite papers on literary criticism, or when I’d write articles to be published in high-circ travel/tourism magazines and newspaper inserts.

Now, my writing is full of shit. Well, maybe it was ALWAYS full of shit, but not the literal type of shit. The brown, stinky, type. The type that I seem to be specializing in these days.

My husband and I often discuss the color and consistencies of the shit in the training potty or in the diapers of our children. It’s an actual topic of discussion. We converse about shit more often than we discuss literature, tourism, publishing, politics, art…pretty much anything.

Hee hee! I said SHIT six times while writing this. No, make that seven. SHIT SHIT SHIT. There. Done. For now.

Yep. I’m 12.

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