11-16-00 Th 4:51 PM

What is this feeling of aggravation? Ugh. Whatever. I’ve got this “most-people-are-fucked-in-the-head-but-I’m-just-a-good-guy” feeling. I have to plant the little rose bush. My wife is easily defeated. Self-defeated. Whatever. She’s afraid the baby barfs too much. I try to tell her it’s normal, my youngest sister barfed a lot, but she’s inconsolable. A little post-partum, perhaps? I’d like a smoke and a drink, is the way my post-partum is shaping up. Oh, wait—that was my pre-partum, too. A smoke and a drink might be able to help me think. She’s kissing the baby. That’s a good sign. Back to work tonight. That must be why I feel aggravated. Ugh. Ugh and fuck. Fuck and ugh. Whatever. Whatever. I read the news today, oh boy. It’s all just shit. I don’t know what else to do, though. I’d like to change my whole life. A new setting, new people. A new land. A new country. Ugh and fuck. Fuck and ugh. Whatever. What ever. What else? I’ve got the baby now. I’m holding her draped over my forearm like a wine steward with linen napkin. She burps. The Lakers and the Kings are on in a little bit. I’ve got some more Bradbury to read. Think I’ll have a cup of coffee. Now, I’ve put the babe on the table. She’s fooling around, kicking her legs and waving her arms. She grunts and tugs her lip. She sneers like Elvis. The skin on her hands and feet is peeling. Her mom went to deposit some checks and pick up some water and infant nipples. “What else can we write, Ada?” I aske her. She answers me with short, rapid breaths and lolls her head to one side. “How ‘bout a glass of wine?” I ask her. No comment. I assume that means she disapproves, but she’s leaving it up to me. I say each word as I write it, just to keep her involved. She seems to like it. She’s not squawking. I kiss the top of her head. What else? I wonder again. The car needs gas and to be washed. We gave the baby a bath today. She was a little grimy with dried, regurgitated breast milk. She seemed to prefer that condition to that of the bath.