I don't know about your blog, but one of the reasons this blog is so bulimically narcissisical and full of stuff that is probably only interesting to myself (hence the negative numbers in my site stats) (god, I could talk to myself for hours) (oh, wait, that's why I got married) is simply because stuff happens, and when the Alzheimer's really starts to kick in I'll be able to save myself the embarrassment of repeating the alphabet over and over again (*true story, except my grandmother had the style to do it in Swedish*). Instead, I'll just point to this site, assuming I've remembered to keep up the Hostway payments, and say, Voila, Jackson, your childhood in a bucket. On July 23, 2003, while sitting in your father's truck and listening to Stevie Ray Vaughan, you, aged two, said, "I like this guy." It was also reported that you spent the earlier part of the afternoon singing for your preschool mates, who stood in rapt attention around you. I had this fantasy that you're some drama queen like Janice Joplin, come back in the body of a little boy. And why not? Can't you just see her, laughing her fat white ass off, bossing around some big black-winged afterlife bat: "Make me into a little boy, motherfucker!" It might also account for the way you've taken, in the frustrating moments when the raisins slide off your milky cereal spoon, to saying, "Oh, goddamn it!" Although really, we have the two weeks you just spent with your grandmother to thank for that.