In the immortal words of my son, E—, as he holds an empty jerky container: "Holy shiz! This bucket smells like pit sweat. Dad, can I have a real garbage can for my room?"
I'm not going to make it through the evening without some REM. Like now.
How have I been going so long with so little unconsciousness? No wonder I've been a moody shiz hole this week.
(I guess this means that I'm cool with "shiz" usage. If E— ever actually read this blog he'd crucify me for hypocrisy.)
(I love my son.)