The other night around 10:30 I was in my room getting ready for bed when I decided to text my mother, who was watching a show downstairs with Dad, and give her some awesomeness. And this is how it went.
Me: “Ed Truck is dead. And it makes me feel like someone has taken my heart and dropped it in a boiling bucket of tears, and then hit my soul in the crotch with a frozen sledgehammer. And then a third guy comes up and punches my grief bone. And I’m crying. But no one can hear me because I am terribly…terribly alone.”
Mom: Poor Michael.
Me: You stink at this game.
Mom: I guess.
Me: You don’t even play it.
Mom: Maybe I do.
Me: No you don’t. You should ask Wes or Taylor how to play.
Mom: I think we should keep a milk cow in one of the upstairs bedrooms.
Me: That’s basically the lamest idea I’ve ever heard.
Mom: I think your room will be sufficient. Plus you always said you wanted to love on a farm.
Me: I said I wanted to LIVE on a farm, not bed with a bovine, Mom.
Mom: No, you won’t have to share your bed.
Me: …can it be a mini cow?
Mom: Sure. Why not.
Me: Pocket sized edition?
Mom: No. Pocket-sized cows are mythical.
At least the ones that give milk are.
Me: Dagnabbit. I can’t figure out where I’d put it. I don’t think it’d fit under my bed with Jack. Maybe I could get rid of my giant beanbag and we could make that corner a pen for it.
Mom: Yes.
Me: I get to name it. And take it with me when I get married and move out. You get to pay for it and it’s food and pet it twice a day.
Unless it’s annoying. Then I’ll leave it here.
Just like I’ll eventually do with my kids.
Mom: Make that a rabbit.
Me: NO. I do NOT want a rabbit.
Mom: Yeah.
Me: That’s like the dumbest idea EVER. Even worse than that time you wanted me to dress up like a Who-ville character for halloween.
Mom: So you do want a rabbit?
Me: Nope. Sure don’t.
Mom: I’m confused.
I don’t understand why you hate farms.
Me: Rabbits aren’t for farms, Mom. Rabbits are for being chased out of bushes by my dog. Cows, horses, goats, sheep, and chickens are farm animals. And lotsa cats and a handful of dogs. But I could live without the chickens.
Remember how I always said I was going to marry a horse trainer?
Mom: ?
Me: Exactly.
Apparently we’re getting a cow and I’m keeping it in my room. This should be interesting.
And for the record, I don’t still plan on marrying a famous horse trainer.
Even though I sure wouldn’t be complaining iffen I did.
Just saying.
Taylor J.
February 15, 2012 at 3:25 pm
“You didn’t hear? Decapitated, whole big thing. We had a funeral for a BIRD.”
Pocket cows eat too much. I recommend a suitcase cow.
BeckyJ
February 15, 2012 at 4:51 pm
I love you two and your nonsensical text-versations!
Kait
February 15, 2012 at 5:09 pm
Trailer:
I’m fairly certain suitcase cows would eat more than pocket ones. All reasonable logic supports that.
“I’m pretty sure none of that’s real.”
Mrs. J:
We’re quite strange.
Taylor J.
February 15, 2012 at 8:44 pm
I’m pretty sure that when discussing mythically-sized cows, all reasonable logic has hit the ground running and screaming. In the opposite direction.
Besides, pocket cows have a higher metabolism.
Kait
February 16, 2012 at 7:42 am
I don’t think you know what you’re talking about, Trailer. Pretty much none of that makes sense.