I spent the day driving yesterday, heading back home from my trip. And I have to admit that something weird happens to me when I am alone in my car with my radio blaring. I cry. It never used to happen before we lost Cricket, but now it does. So, Layfayette, IN, I apologize for driving under the influence of country music. And I have to get the following things off my chest:
1. Damn you, Tim McG.r4w, for making me cry not once, but twice. That's just not fair. I get it, you sing songs with touching lyrics! Stop rubbing it in my face.
2. Damn you, R.asc4l Fl.4tts, for making me cry every. single. time. I hear God Ble.ss the Broken Road. And for making me think about how beautiful it will be to think of this struggle through loss and IF as just part of the path to my babies. And then for making me wonder if this is really a path to my babies or just a path to a sad, childless life. That's just cruel.
3. Damn you double, Tim McG.r4w, for making me cry in a song that isn't even sad. Now you're just trying to make me look crazy. Yeah, that's right, I cried when you did a bunch of stuff to make some girl smile. Yeah, that's right, it's not sad. GET OVER IT!
4. Damn you triple, Tim McG.r4w, for making me feel jealous of you for being able to have a little girl. Even though you missed her birth. BECAUSE YOU WERE DEAD. I was officially jealous of a dead fertile. WTF?!?
And then I ended the trip with unprompted rage. I spent at least 45 minutes being pissed off because Mr. Unexpected was going to be right (and I was going to be wrong) about what time I would get back home. And hoping that he wouldn't say anything to me about it, because I would go into a bout of uncontrollable screaming, go into our room, slam the door, and go straight to bed. But don't worry, I'm not moody or anything.