Inspiration, tweet sized

I've had a tab to my blog open on my web browser for three weeks now. Every day I intend to write in it and find an excuse not to ("Oh, I should watch that episode of Entourage I downloaded," "I'm going to browse some jobs," "I'm going to endlessly read Facebook updates"). So then, I sort of gave up and instead pulled out my journal--yes, it's made of paper and requires a pen and some hand stamina to add any thoughts. And then, this journal sat on my bed for two weeks. Before bed, I'd push it to the side "for tomorrow" and in the morning, I'd set it on top of my comforter "for tonight." This morning I put the journal back in its place with nothing new inside. And as I was about to close this tab, I suddenly felt an urge to follow through on SOMETHING.

I don't have Twitter but I kind of wish I did. I could much more easily commit to regularly banging out 140 characters. On the other hand, I don't need another personalized outlet to ignore.

I started part-time nannying an eight-week-old boy today. Though he's pretty adorable, he bored the hell out of me. My arm was sore and I smelled like boob milk and I wanted oh-so-badly to take a nap all day. When I go to a public park on a Sunday and am surrounded by children playing, I'm annoyed, not delighted, by the sound of laughter. When that stupid child's parents do not stop her from reaching out to grab me every time I walk by her at work, I want to punish them for their irresponsible parenting and her for her irritating behavior.

I am so not ready to be a mom. And I'm pleased, cause I ain't even close to getting there. Things I want to do before I start actually liking the thought of having kids: go to at least five more countries. Learn Spanish. Have steamy affairs with more people that aren't my baby's daddy. Make some money. Spend some money. Buy a better car. Get more tattoos. Eat lots of sushi. Road trip across America. Not have kids.

I mean no offense to those of you who have them. For the most part, I like all my friends' kids. I just don't want them. Not one bit.

Here's to being 25 without a little mini-me.