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Let's Panic: The Book!

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How to Endure and Possibly Triumph Over the Adorable Tyrant
who Will Ruin Your Body, Destroy Your Life, Liquefy Your Brain,
and Finally Turn You
into a Worthwhile
Human Being.

Written by Alice Bradley and Eden Kennedy

Some Books
I'm In...

Sleep Is
For The Weak

Chicago Review Press

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Let's Panic

The site that inspired the book!

At LET'S PANIC ABOUT BABIES, Eden Kennedy and I share our hard-won wisdom and tell you exactly what to think and feel and do, whether you're about to have a baby or already did and don't know what to do with it. → 

« Henry wants you all to know... | Main | At least it was invisible. »

Grump, grump, grump.

I am a grump. I am grumping. I am engaged in grumpery. Nothing is right, everything is wrong. If I could stomp around muttering "grump grump grump," it would feel extraordinarily correct. I suppose I could. Nothing's stopping me.

(Pause to throw cat off lap.)

My sheets are unwashed, there are tumbleweeds of pet hair on the stairs. My right hand hurts for no reason I can figure. My hair is stupid. We're no longer on vacation. It's sunny and breezy out. If it were still be raining I could stay in and grumble under the (unwashed) sheets. But noooooo. Weather hates me.

While I'm writing this, Charlie is flipping out at the cat for, you know, being a cat. For batting at things. Charlie, let it go.

(Cat's back up, and is actively trying to delete my document. Aaand now she is flying off my lap, via the power of my sore right hand. Ow.)

And you know what? You can't tell a four-and-a-half-year-old that you're in a bad mood, because they don't care. If anything, they decide they're in a bad mood too, but unfortunately the bad mood of the preschooler is not characterized by silent grumping, but instead by a) whining and b) carrying on. So instead one should repress every glimmer of negative emotion, push it deep down into one's abdomen, where the four-and-a-half-year-old will still sense its presence and respond in kind so ignore what I just wrote, it makes no sense. Just… just don't bother getting up. Hire a replacement. When you're in this kind of mood, the preschooler will love anyone who is not you. Grab the guy who mows the lawn across the street, who seems to be there every day; why is he there every day? Who needs their lawn mowed every day? I ask you.

(Cat's back, purring violently at me. Soon she will put her butt on the keyboard while kneading my face with her claws. I know it.)

You people, however, amuse me. I never suspected so many of my delicate readers would be so stricken at the sight of a fellow enjoying an invigorating electro-massage of his innards. Look at him, does he seem disturbed? See how pleased he is with his newfangled gadgetry? Why begrudge him that? It's not like he's plucking at his intestines with a fork.

Oh, I need to lie down. Maybe I need one of those massagers. Did you ever wish you were getting sick? Just so you could lie in bed for days, perhaps being looked after by a sexy nurse? I need a sexy nurse. WHY DO I HAVE NO SEXY NURSE? I would also take a brownie.

The cat's on me again. I'm afraid I don't have the energy to remove her. Send help. Sexy help.

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