Can i get some damn sleep up in here?

Buddhists think that spirits chose to be born. In fact, they are shown a slew of copulating couples and pick the ones they want to be their parents at the moment of conception. In which case, what were you thinking, Brandon?!?

Now? You chose NOW? Have you been reading the news? Yeah, I thought not. If you HAD, you probably would’ve been like, wait hold up. Things ain’t looking too hot on the earth right now, i’mma sit this one out. And me? You chose me? Duuuude, I am NOT financially stable, like not even a LITTLE. Do you know how much student loan debt I have? Yeah, those sallie mae fools own me for a GRIP, son.

This baby finally fell asleep in my lap after nursing, and right when I thought I could quietly slink away, his eyes popped open and he kung-fu-grippped my wrist like a killer in a horror movie after you THOUGHT they were dead but SUPRISE, they ain’t.

Duuuude, we were all good like 10 minutes ago. Remember 10 minutes ago? You were sleeping HARD with my hooter in your mouth, all splayed out on the nursing pillow like a shameless drunk at a frat house party. I sent up a prayer of thanks to the lawd that you had finally passed out from the exhausting job of being a baby with 24-handmaidens at your beckoning. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE ASLEEP JUST NOW. And you WERE. Now suddenly you’re pop locking and doing cartwheels and you won’t settle down. Oh no, you are NOT having any of that going to sleep jazz, and you will NOT be talked off that ledge. And now your father’s getting an attitude with me like I’m in cahoots with YOU and it’s a conspiracy to keep HIM from getting sleep. So, I do your father a solid and take you in the living room so you can unabashedly shout your little head off while I go through the old riggamarole of trying to figure out JUST WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU. You know, checking your diaper, trying to burp you and offering you a titty to try and quell your anger….oh wait….what’s this….I’ve got you in a really awkward position and now you’re falling asleep? Like this? Forreal? Oh right I forgot, you can only fall asleep if I’m equally as uncomfortable as you are comfortable. Brandon, you DIABOLIC.

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And now, a poem that doesn’t rhyme: Brandon, you are the Riggs to my Murtaugh


Even when you’re screaming like a banshee, deep into the night, and probably waking up the neighbors,

You are the Riggs to my Murtaugh
Even when you bite the holy living shit out of my nipple while nursing,
Even when you blindly reach down to grab your poop-covered junk while I’m changing your diaper,
Even though I constantly have to bend at the waist while holding an unevenly distributed 20+ pounds (YOU),
You are the Riggs to my Murtaugh
Murtaugh was only days away from retirement, when along came Riggs, who rekindled that dying flame under Murtaugh’s ass.
Murtaugh was too old for this shit, you see. But Riggs did not care.
Murtaugh just wanted to chill with his morning coffee and stare into space, but Riggs always had other plans:
What kind of mischief can i get us into?
How many people will I kill today?
I wonder how reckless I can be with both of our lives this week?
These were just some of the questions Riggs would ask himself everyday.
And Murtaugh did what he could to keep his partner from getting himself killed, like all the damn time. And even though Riggs’s shenanigans took years off of Murtaugh’s life, he was always down for his homey. No matter what.
As I too, am down for you, Brandon. No matter what.
Because you,
Are the Riggs to my Murtaugh