Wait, I'm the Adult?! Life, apparently, requires supervision.

September 5th, 2026

By Emergency Contact

I started today by founding a strip club.

Perhaps I should explain.

Actually, no.

Explaining this will not help.

I didn’t want to pump.

Somehow—and I genuinely need you to understand that this felt like a perfectly reasonable progression at the time—that turned into me announcing that I was too fat to strip.

Which became:

Maybe I’ll be a pimp.

And this is where a normal person’s brain might have recognized that the thought had reached its natural conclusion.

Mine did not.

Because apparently I cannot even hypothetically enter the adult entertainment industry without becoming concerned about employee welfare.

Suddenly we weren’t just opening a strip club.

We were opening an ethical strip club.

Benefits.

Respect.

Safe working conditions.

Dancers treated like actual fucking human beings.

Retention strategy.

Reduced stigma.

The whole fucking package.

Because if we’re going to build an imaginary ass-based empire, we’re going to do it responsibly.

Naturally, every respectable imaginary ass-based enterprise also requires proper corporate infrastructure.

Thus:

Ass & Benefits Enterprises, LLC

Come for the ass. Stay for the benefits.

At some point, I looked at this increasingly legitimate imaginary business and thought:

Hear me out: entrepreneurship.

I would like to emphasize that this entire business venture was conceived at approximately 3:00 in the fucking morning.

After one hour of sleep.

I had slept for sixty minutes, woke up to tend to a baby, didn’t want to pump, and somehow emerged from the experience as the founder and CEO of an ethical imaginary strip club with employee benefits.

There are two brain cells responsible for operations around here.

One is Scrat from Ice Age, eternally pursuing the nut with absolutely no regard for the catastrophic consequences occurring around him.

The other is Hei Hei from Moana.

This is what happens when neither of them receives adequate rest.

Neither is management material.

Unfortunately, somebody made me the adult anyway.

✨ BALANCE ✨

Anyway.

By the end of the night, I was sitting in complete darkness with a breast pump attached to my tits, one AirPod in my ear, listening to an audiobook because the mere concept of turning on the television felt like an unreasonable demand.

This is motherhood.

Apparently.

The Tiny Monarch Declares War

Meatball spent a significant portion of the evening deeply offended by conditions on Earth.

Hungry?

Offensive.

Tired?

Also offensive.

Pacifier?

Absolutely the fuck not.

At one point, this child was so exhausted that her eyelids were practically submitting their resignation letters, but she remained personally committed to preventing the pacifier from doing its one fucking job.

I held it gently in place.

She responded with angry raspberries in an attempt to eject it from her mouth.

Imagine being offered comfort and responding:

PBBBBBBT.

FUCK YOUR COMFORT, MOTHER.

Eventually, sleep began breaching the defenses.

This was a delicate operation.

No sudden movements.

No eye contact.

Absolutely no internal acknowledgment that the baby might actually be falling asleep, because babies can apparently detect optimism.

Then Grandpappy Arrived

As Meatball approached unconsciousness, Grandpappy decided this was the perfect opportunity to attempt to crawl into my skin and reattach his umbilical cord.

I love that child more than life itself.

I also wanted everyone in the house approximately six feet away from my fucking skin.

He wanted cuddles.

Of course he wanted cuddles.

He’s eight. Mama is comfortable. Mama is safe. Mama gives good cuddles.

Unfortunately, Mama’s nervous system had hung a sign on the door:

MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY REACHED.

And then came the guilt.

Because motherhood is apparently spending all day giving pieces of your body to other people and then feeling like an asshole when you discover there are no pieces left.

But Wait. There Are Titties.

Just when I thought perhaps my body might finally belong exclusively to me—

I remembered.

I had to pump.

Again.

Twenty minutes?

Absolutely the fuck not.

Tonight’s establishment would be offering a fifteen-minute express service.

No television.

No Blue Bloods.

No lights.

No productivity.

No pretending pumping time was an excellent opportunity to answer messages, work on the blog, organize something, research something, or complete one of the approximately seventeen thousand tasks permanently running in the background of my brain.

Just darkness.

One AirPod.

An audiobook.

And the rhythmic mechanical soundtrack of motherhood.

Whrrr.

Whrrr.

Whrrr.

And thus, entirely by accident, I invented:

Pitch Black Titty Meditation™

Inhale:

I am at peace.

Exhale:

Everybody leave me the fuck alone.

Inhale:

I release what I cannot control.

Exhale:

Please stop touching me.

Perhaps Buddha would be proud.

Perhaps Buddha would ask me to leave.

I don’t know.

I’m new here.

✨ BALANCE ✨

And that’s the ridiculous thing about today.

I spent part of it thinking about Buddhism.

About compassion.

About learning that caring for other people doesn’t require abandoning myself.

I practiced allowing someone else’s discomfort to exist without immediately sacrificing my own needs to eliminate it.

I took a bath.

I rested.

I tried to recognize when my body was telling me:

Girl. We are fucking DONE.

And somewhere in between all that intentional personal growth, I founded an imaginary strip club.

Because apparently enlightenment and absolute fucking nonsense aren’t mutually exclusive.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

Maybe adulthood isn’t eventually becoming the serene, organized person who always knows what she’s doing.

Maybe motherhood isn’t gracefully meeting everyone’s needs with infinite patience while soft sunlight pours through an immaculate kitchen window.

Maybe sometimes it’s loving your children more than anything in existence while simultaneously wishing you could crawl out of your own skin because everybody needs something from your body.

Maybe it’s apologizing when you’re overstimulated.

Setting boundaries when you’re touched out.

Holding the pacifier through the angry raspberries.

Doing the next necessary thing.

And sometimes deciding that the next necessary thing can wait until tomorrow.

Maybe it’s trying very fucking hard to become a healthier human while still being an absolute menace.

I don’t know.

Like I said:

Nobody qualified me for this position.

Apparently somebody just listed me as the emergency contact.

And tonight, the Emergency Contact is unavailable.

She’s meditating.

In the dark.

With her tits attached to a machine.

🪷

✨ BALANCE ✨

I’m just a girl. 💅

⸻

Oh, by the way.

I’m Buddhist.

I feel like that’s probably relevant information considering I just spent an entire post casually mentioning Buddha and discussing enlightenment between references to an imaginary strip club and mechanically expressing breast milk.

Probably should’ve led with that.

Anyway.

You’ll learn quickly that context around here is less something I provide and more something you eventually earn.

Welcome to the lore. 🪷

-EC