The Questions We Ask Ourselves

I think it has long been established that talking to yourself does not mean you are crazy. The story used to go that you’re only mad if you answer back, but we all know that’s not true either.

We all talk to ourselves, all of the time. Whether it’s out loud or the imagined conversation you’re having in your head after dealing with a rude person, it’s part of our thought process.  It helps us know how we feel, find things, and vent frustrations.  It’s totally normal.

I recently noticed how often I ask myself questions that I never expect myself, or anyone else, to answer. Talking to ourselves for no reason…is that madness?

Why do we buy them (kids) markers/play-doh/paint, etc.?

Honestly, why? I really don’t know.  We can tell ourselves (in a sane self conversation) that it is because we like to see them happy, but let’s face it, put a big ass box in the living room and those simple-minded kids will be entertained for hours.

Never, ever in the history of the whole world since the combination of disaffected youth and spray paint has the world been so inappropriately colorful. My boys have tagged every single surface of our house with their mini gang sign.  I think they’re in the Pre-School Kings or something like that.

My kids have also become very adept at giving themselves washable marker prison tats. If I bothered to wash them everyday, that wouldn’t be so bad.  Keeping kids clean is an exercise in madness anyway. Why not just embrace the early stages of rebellious body art?

How does that even happen?

There are things in this world that don’t make sense. Scientists may tell you that we just haven’t found the answers yet, but really, it’s some sort of mystical sorcery that none of us will ever understand, nor are we meant to.

How did Donald Trump get this far in an election? Why do old people keep driving through buildings? Why is Kanye West still making “music”? We can perhaps wrap our minds around the logistics or physics of these phenomena, but we can never know the “why.” Our tiny human brains can’t grasp the awesomeness of these curve-balls the universe insists on throwing at us.

How did I get this bruise?

Remember the story of the shoe maker who was a lazy bastard and some elves came in and saved his ass?  There might be bruise elves out there.  They usually target women. They see the tender flesh of an inside upper arm and must leave their mark. A shin is just begging to be tested for durability.

These elves are not the benevolent kind that cobble out of the goodness of their tiny hearts. These guys are fuckers. All they want to do is make you wake up and ask yourself if scurvy could be the cause behind these inexplicable bruises. So, you get up and eat an orange and that night, the process starts all over again while last night’s bruises turn yellow.

Well, I guess this is a question you will no longer ask yourself. I’ve just solved the mystery for you. Don’t thank the universe, thank me.

Seriously, blogging and parenting is a thankless job. I need your adoration to feel whole again.

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