At around 6 PM on May 30th, I get a call from my sister's fiance Jason letting me know that Shannon has gone into labor. There was no need for me to come, as he would be keeping me updated. After a long, long night of pacing and jumping at every single sound waiting for the phone call that would beckon me to the hospital and my niece, 6:30 AM rolls around and it's time. The hospital told me that I wasn't allowed to come until visiting hours at eleven, but pfffffffttttt, like that was going to happen! So Sean and I get showered and dressed and drive over. Getting off the elevators at 7:40, my mom tells me that it just ended and they're stitching her up. Calli is tiny (less than 6 lbs), but healthy and in possession of all the required digits. Being that I have no desire to see my sister's vajay in that state, Sean and I wait outside until the gore ends. I walk into the room, and there's Shannon and Jason and my dear, perfect little lady, Calli Kathleen Bonany. She has a ton of black curly hair (thanks to Daddy) and Shannon's cute tiny nose. Of course I start bawling like a fool and hugging Shannon around her IVs. The past two days, I have smooched, cuddled, gotten over the initial terror of holding something so small, and fell head-over-heels for her. The twitch in my womb makes me wonder if my adamant "no way" toward having kids may be waffled on.

Oh yeah, and also, I got married. June 1st, Sean and I called the two JPs in town. The first wasn't available until Saturday (nuts to that guy) but the second took us at one'o'clock, that day. Sean called his master corporal to witness and put on his shiniest jeans. 1 rolls around and we're on the dock at the marina, saying our vows and swatting away ten bajillion fish flies. We bought the world's cheapest wedding bands (a grand total of $200!) and practiced saying "holy fuck, we're married."

Did I mention we didn't tell anyone but my sister and her fiance, who were supposed to witness? But then Shannon had to go ruin it with labor. Pft.

Eventually, the secret began to bore down on me, as struggling to remove my wedding ring whenever my dad's wife was in the vicinity became trying, so I (get this) sent my father a text message. I called my mom and told her, at which point she informed me that I was "schwacked" and a "crazy broad". My dad eventually called and I awkwardly informed Daddy that I'm no longer a Stevens, but a Finnegan instead. They're both "happy for me if I'm happy" and Sunday is super-fucking-awkward-dinner-day now. My mom was a little miffed she wasn't there, but felt better after I informed her of the completely informal nature of the whole thing. We'll one day have a proper wedding with rings that didn't come out of Cracker Jack's boxes, but what was important to us is done - we are married and in love. Also, I get 90% of my eyeglasses covered, which is handy because Odin ate my old ones.

I'm sure this entry makes no sense, because these two days have been exhausting, so here's something that makes all the sense in the world"

I know you breeding types love your breast-feeding. You love it a lot. Enough to photograph it, do it on the bus, get pissed off that people enjoying a fine dining experience don't like to see it. That's good. I'm not bashing your "rights" [citation required] or opinions on it, though I'm sure they're very different than mine.

However, my roommate has decided that the most appropriate place to store her soggy breast-milk pump is on a paper towel on the (very small) kitchen counter, making navigating difficult for me when I require the sugar bowl, which is just way too close for comfort. My arms just aren't long enough, and the kitchen is just not big enough, for her to store that contraption in our shared space. Yeah, yeah, it's fucking beautiful and natural, etc but do I need to be subjected to such an intimate thing as the machine you hook to your tit to get baby food out of it? Answer: Hell no.

PS: I know you're going to "sample" that. Ew.

Rob has looked on the verge of fainting for days.

That's about all I know about that, so far.

MS has been bad, thanks to the heat.

Informed Emily that I don't want to be her friend because I have no respect for whores. Also referred to her as "Dr. Phil" when she told me that discussing our issues would broaden my horizons. After an hour of abusing her with words, she's leaving tomorrow night.