Sorry.

This week I have been scraping the bottom of the emotional barrel over one minute and nineteen seconds. I suck. Super Fan Chula has to deal with a depressed Haricot Verts, which is probably worse than dealing with this. Sorry Chula.Now, fully sure that if I could travel in time that I would piss my pants to finish in under 9 hours, I go to where everyone does when they need a hug and assurance that they did the right thing: Mom. My Mom is Llama. She is a great women. Childhood friends still stop in to visit her, get a snack, eat dinner and laugh at her stories. So I figured I would tell Llama the whole story, get her input and hopefully a hug.

Llama: "Did you have on Depends? Because I play cards with ladies who wear Depends and pee their pants all the time." Llama thinks I wear Depends. This is getting more depressing.

Me: "No Depends on, Llama."

Llama: "I would not have peed my pants without a Depends."

This was followed by a silence. Llama sensed I needed cheering up. "Girls pee their pants when they laugh sometime," she offered.

This explains a lot. And is confusing.

"If you wanna pee your pants, pee your pants," she said, finishing with, "If you come that close and are going to pee your pants, be prepared."

Thanks, Llama.

So, if there is a next Leadville for me, I will not only wear plum smugglers but an adult diaper strapped to my a** because anything is possible.