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I am sorry to report that I am not in fact pregnant with a ghost baby. There were rumors. Suspicions. Raised eyebrows. But alas, my uterine lining has begun to shed.

So I guess my friends were right after all, that a ghost did not have relations with me while I was sleeping one night. I think that one day I will be glad I don’t have to raise a ghost. but today… well today I’m just disappointed.

I still have my baby birds though. Four of them! four tiny lovely little baby birds. They are getting so big! they’ll be leaving the nest soon, I imagine. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself once they’re gone.

Then I’ll have no ghost babies. No bird babies. nothing. Nothing but my stupid face.

I think there are three baby birds. I’ve named them Piper, Callie and Stormy. Piper and Callie are girls and Stormy is probably a girl, too.

I obviously have no idea if these baby birds are male or female and there might even only be two. But it doesn’t matter. I have decided. I have three baby girl birds!

They aren’t making noises yet but I often see piper’s little beak rising up out of the nest and opening and closing. She calls the shots. I can tell.

Sadly, I had to drop Neko as a name because I don’t think my birds are sparrows. I saw the dad and he had some red in his breast, going up into his neck and head. According to my exhaustive research (three minutes on google), this might make them house finches. And I can’t name a finch Neko. She never sang a song about finches. That I know of anyway.

I also learned that house finches are one of the rare species that only feed their young plant material, no worms or bugs or such. I like this.

Holy shit, do I love my birds. so much. So so much. I could talk about them all night. I may be overly obsessed with them but not really. And besides, it is better than paying attention to my kids or cleaning the house or taking showers.

Did you know that these same birds might also come back next year and make another nest in the same spot? Now I can never move. It’s fine. We all have to make sacrifices for our families.

I noticed yesterday or the day before some weird action happening in my balcony bird nest, the mama has not been in the nest and there are these new white pieces that weren’t there before.

Yes! It’s happened! The baby birds are here!!

The nest is high up and it’s hard to see and get pictures because of the angle and the light and plus it’s a stupid cell phone.

But I made ry climb up on the pillar to try and get me some kind of photographic evidence.

And look!!!!!

It’s difficult to tell, I didn’t want to get too close or stay too long, but I think there are at least three.

It brings me such happiness, 2020 has been nothing but awfulness day after day. BUT I HELPED THESE BABY BIRDS GET BORN and I love it and I want to just hold them and kiss them and suffocate them with my joy.

I have no idea what kind of bird, probably some sort of sparrow.

The one thing I know how to do well is navel gaze.

Well, that and sucking cock. So I guess two things.

But giving an amazing blow job is also a form of navel gazing, so really it’s just the one thing.

I admit it is a bad thing (the self indulgent bit not the bjs. obvsly).

honestly though, if you can’t find a way to be endlessly fascinated with yourself, life will be so. very. long.

The problem of course is all that endless self fascination means getting really fucking sick of yourself (quite literally in some cases).

Sure, you can always double down on the self obsession (like have a dumb fckn blog called loafe) but eventually it will crack and you might find yourself doing any number of pathetic things to deal with the revulsion. Writing love letters to boys. Pining for a dead mom. Scrubbing your toilet with a little brush while raging at the patriarchy. Maybe getting stupid drunk, by yourself, on your 2nd floor balcony, and then, when you see the first bit of sun on the horizon, you think to yourself ‘now is a good time to cry’ but you can’t even manage that because god what a phony you are.

I gotta tell you though. I can write the fuck out of a love letter. I’m really great at it. (It’s still navel gazing. I TOLD YOU I was good at one thing.)

I’m just grateful that I didn’t actually send them.

Personal growth? Maybe. Just maybe.