I like to be dirty.
No, I’m not talking in a fetish, adult kind of a way. I mean I like being grubby. Getting dirt on me doesn’t bother me in the least, and I could really care less about germs.
As a kid my favorite thing to do was to play in the mud.
As an adult, not much has changed.
When I drop my fork on the floor… you know what I do? I pick it up.
It’s the floor. It’s not like I tend to eat knee-deep in fresh manure.
When I’m in public or around polite society, I pretend to care if I drop a piece of food on the floor. I’ll wrap it up in my napkin and toss it in the trash or place it beside my plate, bemoaning the loss.
When I’m by myself, I’m not quite so finicky. Pick it up, blow off the cat hair, and pop it in your mouth. Am I right? Who’s with me on this?
In fact, when I lived by myself, not only did I live by the “five-second” rule… I kind of stretched it out. It was more like a “Finder’s Keepers” rule.
So, NATURALLY, I would give birth to this:
Who IS this child? He can’t possibly be mine.