The continuing saga of text messages between me and my three month old daughter.
EDIE: Pop! Pop! Pop!
POP: What's up? What's wrong?
EDIE: I had a bad dream!
POP: Oh, Edie, I'm so sorry. I wish there was...hold on. Why are you texting me this? Why aren't you just crying?
EDIE: It's called the 21st century, Pop. Real emotions expressed through human to human contact is archaic. Only what we convey electronically is of value.
POP: That is not true. Who taught you that crap?
EDIE: The Church of the Internet.
POP: Very funny.
EDIE: No, it's a real church. Ashton Kutcher goes there. And I would never make an Ashton Kutcher joke, so you know it's just true.
POP: Good. I really don't want this conversation to devolve into a bunch of celebrity hate/worship jokes. And the hell you're going to Kutcher Church. How are you even getting to a computer?
EDIE: You know how my legs are super pudge and muscularly underdeveloped?
POP: You've been lying to us? You can walk?!
EDIE: Oh no. My gams are useless. But I have a grappling hook and those fat legs cushion my fall.
POP: I don't even...nevermind. What was your bad dream about?
EDIE: It was terrifying. There were all these fast blurry shapes and a giant standing over my crib with massive hands reaching into get me.
POP: That was me. I'm that ham handed giant. It's probably a memory you have of me getting you out of your crib.
EDIE: Well, I keep having the same dream. So fix it.
POP: You can't fix dreams. They're buried thoughts, anxieties, hopes and fears in your subconscious.
EDIE: FIX IT!
POP: What am I going to do? Enter your subconscious?
EDIE: Yes. Go into my dreamscape. Like a dreamwarrior.
POP: This text cannot convey the cold rage howling through me right now. How did you see Nightmare on Elm Street?
EDIE: Um, Kutcher. We watch them a lot at the Church of the Internet.
POP: I'm going to punch him in his face until it looks like Charlie Sheen is back on Two and a Half Men.
EDIE: He's really broken up about Demi. Church has gotten really sad. We barely even read the Holy Twitters any more. And nobody stands up and retweets them at all.
POP: He cheated on her! How can he be sad?
EDIE: Well, he really wanted to get away with it. His beard is made from tears.
POP: You're not going to that church anymore!
EDIE: Then you become a dreamwarrior!
POP: Fine! I'll google how to do it! Give me your grappling hook!
EDIE: You'll never find it!
POP: Is it in my sock drawer?
EDIE: ...
POP: Is your silence a confirmation?
EDIE: I hate your adult brain.
This was amazing! I hate stupid hackneyed abbreviations, but to ROTFL is my current reality.
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