In about 2 months, I will be dead.
That should read: I will be a dad.
Same difference either way, right?
This fall, a mini-me, or a mini-my-wife, will descend upon the earth like a scourge, devouring everything in its path, from my free time to my bank account to my self-respect. Seriously. The thing’s not even born yet and I already hate myself. Not too fond of my baby either. Especially since it’s set to emerge – or land or explode or whatever they do – on my birthday!
I’m already sharing the week with my wife’s wedding anniversary, not to mention sharing the month with her birthday (which is actually in November but requires at least 2 months of planning). Now I’ve got another mouth to feed, another present to buy, another reason for my big day to be overlooked.
In short: Boo.
But at least he will look like me!
He had better effing look like me.