Glamorous Life of a Smut Peddler, Part 1

Tonight my 22 month old son screamed all through dinner and refused to eat, demanding more salt so he could put it on his fingers and lick it off.

Son: MORE SAAAAAAAALLLT MORE SAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLT Husband: Too much salt is bad for you. Do you want some carrots? Son: I DON’T WANT CAAARRROOOOOTTTS, I WANT SOME SAAAAAAAAALLLT Husband: Can you try some roast? Son: I DON’T WANT ROAST I WANT MORE SAAAAAAALLLT Husband: You know, I think the salt is not the issue here. The salt is a proxy for something. Son: I WANT SOME MORE SAAAAAAAAAAAALLLT Husband: Can you say, “The salt is a metaphor?” Son: I DON’T WANT A METAPHOOOOOOOR

Got it, kid. No metaphors. I wish my life were 24-7 buttplugs and vibrators and screwing aliens in churches like in my books. Alas. So, if you ever wondered what a smut peddler does when she’s not writing or peddling her smut, there you go. Getting literary criticism from a 2 year old at 90 decibels.