The Bad Mom

 I house sat over the fourth of July weekend for friends who alphabetize their video library.  Not having a T.V myself meant some serious movie watching.  I got started in the “A’s” and decided to watch every movie with the word “American” in the title to celebrate the birth of our fine country.  My first selection was How to make an American Quilt. Chick flicks plus post partum depression are a bad idea.  I cried like a baby and before I knew it I was sending text messages to my ex-lovers, typing things like: “I still love you.”

Next I popped in American Beauty, which motivated me to call my pot dealer for a dub. 

Now that I have the munchies I ended my movie marathon with American Pie which just made me horny and depressed because I’ve convinced myself that nobody will ever want to have sex with me now that I have a baby.

I jerked myself off and stepped outside to smoke a cigarette.  My friend’s neighbor looked up from her gardening and scolded, “You shouldn’t smoke with a baby.”

“Oh, I don’t smoke, I’m just depressed,” I assured her.

“But it’s going to kill you,” she replied.

“I WANT THEM TO KILL ME!”

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