Why are you taking a shower? Why do I have to brush my teeth? Why is the sun hot? Where is my woobie? What are you doing? Why? Can I have some milk? Can I have some water? Where is the cat? Why is she in the basement? Why are you scratching your leg? Why did you get a mosquito bite? Why does it itch. Why? Why? Why?
Seriously? Shut it before I call the adoption agency and inquire if there is a nice Amish family that wants to take you to the middle of nowhere where you can ask your incessant questions to a goat or something.
The questions are non-stop from sun-up to sun-down in our house. And all lines of questioning end the same way: with 362 repetitions of, "Why?" I think that my toddler's unending questions may one day lead me to commit harakiri (poor Harry Caray).
I love that The Quiet Contemplator is inquisitive. It shows she is all smart and stuff. But when I am trying to put on mascara while being assaulted with the Spanish Inquisition on why the cat poops in a box, I tend to get a little twitchy. Ok, really twitchy. And people tend to frown on you pouring a drink before 8 a.m. on a Tuesday.
I feel like Jules Winnfield in Pulp Fiction. Say "why" again. Say "why" again. I dare you. I double-dare you, motherfucker. Say "why" one more goddamn time.