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I said I would teach this class, this journalism class, and now it is rearing up before me and I am freaking out. To invoke the late lamented Rick James, I am super-freaking out. I said we would produce a weekly school paper. Why did I do that? Fuck! Nobody was begging me to do this thing. I just thought it would be cool. And now it is turning into one of those ideas that I wish I had never uttered out loud. What was I doing, showing off? Was I trying to convince the other Moms that I'm special? Oh, fuck me, I don't want to do this. I have to hold an introductory meeting and barf give a little speech puke and aaaaagh that won't be the end of it, that will only be the beginning! It's going to take over my life, or try to, and Duff will crab and complain and I will pull my hair out trying to strike a balance.
uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh it's bad, I'm so stupid, uhhhhhhhhhhh, my stomach...
In other news, my darling boy turned six today. When I started this diary he was just a year old. He is luscious and whip-smart, and if I were a wicked old troll, I would gobble him up.