3am: Pssst. Psssst. PSSSSSST!
Me: Yeah? What? Why did you wake me up?
3am: Because I’m lonely. Turns out 1 isn’t the loneliest number.
Me: Boo hoo. I’m going back to bed.
3am: That’s hilarious. No you’re not.
Me: Yes I am. I’m the captain of this ship. I do yoga. I will yoga myself back to sleep.
3am: Well that’s just stupid. You’re terrible at yoga. And you’d be a terrible captain. Your crew would mutiny. You’d walk the plank. You can’t swim. You’d probably get eaten by a sea turtle.
Me: A sea turtle. Right. Goodnight.
3am: Your financial future is unstable.
Me: Well that’s just rude.
3am: And you have a bag of rotting mushroom liquefying in your vegetable drawer.
Me: Yes. Yes I do.
3am: Don’t you want to take care of that before the baby gets here?
Me: The mushrooms? Yes. It is a little embarrassing.
3am: No. Your future. You should figure out a way to solve all of your financial shortcomings before the baby gets here.
Me: But that’s in like, 10 days?
3am: Exactly. So let’s think. And just to be clear, by think I mean worry. Let’s just lay here and worry until my shift is over.
Me: I hate you with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.
3am: You should channel that fire into worry. There are so many things we can worry about! Like the rusty undercarriage of your car! And bills! And Donald Trump! And breastfeeding! And how fat your armpits are!
Me: My armpits are rather sizable. And The Donald is pretty concerning…
3am: Flint. Syria. Declining manatee populations. The number of fruit flies in your kitchen. Your inability to remember passwords. Your mother’s Christmas present that’s still sitting on the desk waiting to be mailed. Also your cat is so fat she looks like a baby panda who is about 12 hours away from a juvenile diabetes diagnosis.
Me: SHE’S ON A DIET.
3am: When was the last time you did the Macarena?
Me: The what?
3am: You know, that crazy song from the nineties… HEEEEY Macarena! Aaay!
Me: The Macarena. Of course.
3am: I just ask because whenever I’m feeling down I sing it and it perks me right up. HEEEEY Macarena! Aaay!
Me: I’m not down. I’m tired. And I hate that song.
3am: HEEEEY Macarena! Aaay!
Me: Aren’t there other lyrics?
3am: HEEEEY Macarena! Aaah! HEEEEY Macarena! Aaah! HEEEEY Macarena! Aaay!
Me: Oh look at the time, it’s almost 4! So much for worrying the night away.
3am: I was just playing. Everything will probably work out fine. Maybe. HEEEEY Macarena! Aaay!
Me: Jesus. Stop that.
3am: Macarena Macarena Macarena…
Me: Go away.
3am: One last thing.
Me: If you say Macarena…
3am: Having a baby is going to suck. I mean have you thought about the logistics of this? The baby is so big! You are so small. Hahahaha, oh man, this is great. There’s no way this is going to work. Do you remember how miserable you were last time? 41 hours of labor. The time we spent together then sure was entertaining, you know, for me. You looked like you were drowning on dry land. Or like you were having an allergic reaction to shellfish, while simultaneously being possessed by the spirit of an angry breakdancer. I can’t wait to do it all again. And so soon! Oooh, I gotta jet. 4 is here. HEEEEY Macarena! Aaay!
4am: Oooh I love the Macarena! Also it smells like rotting mushrooms in here.