I'm a baby, and I'm holding a baby.

There may have been some tears shed tonight, (melodramatic ones at that), unwarranted.  I may have thrown a piece of cake on the floor (don't worry, it stayed on the plate after the bounce). Really?  I did that?  I may have sat on the couch for twenty minutes with my hands in fists pushed up against my eyes.  Good thing Carl is a saint.  What was all this about, you ask? To quote myself, "I'm sick of making stupid things."  I don't think temples are stupid.  I don't think art or paintings are stupid.  I don't think writing is stupid, I just sometimes (or a lot of times)...am...immature? I just sometimes don't like the way I do things, but too bad, I'm me and I have no other way of doing them.  I think today was a throwback to about 1987, when I was a mere three years old.  Back in the day when I demanded my mom cut out the elastic from all of my clothes, including underwear, because I just couldn't handle the annoyance of something trying to bind me all up like that.  This morning I insisted that Carl cut the elastic on the sleeve of my shirt, while it was on my body.  He was hesitant, but since I have been acting like my three-year old self all day, I was indignant and insisting and he shut his eyes and snipped my fancy shirt.  Also, this afternoon, I was in the sandpit with Remy.  Not perched on the edge watching, but in.  I realized at one point that I was way more into sifting sand and building up towers than he was.  What? I thought writing this out would make me feel better, less embarrassed.  It didn't really.  I guess though, I've been touting honesty in blogging, so this makes me a shining star.