I want to believe.

I was still living in Janesville when The Boy Who Broke My Heart (Oh, sob, you big baby, and yes, I'm over it, of course, but I don't want to use his real name on here, and heaven forbid I use a flattering term) and I were dating. He moved down to NIU for school. The route there was I-90 to I-39, then the Rochelle exit to DeKalb (just north of I-88).



One day--I think it was about midway through first semester--, I went down to visit. I remember approaching the first Rockford exit. The next thing I remember is rolling up to a toll booth on I-88 halfway to Chicago from I-39. It's like I blinked and teleported there. It remains, to this day, one of the weirdest things that has ever happened to me.

Well, until today.

I was hugging James goodbye this morning and he said, "Don't forget about your doctor's appointment today."

I said, "Whaaa? It's not 'til Friday."

He paused a little, then said, "Uh, hon? It is Friday."

"No, it's Wednesday."

In a tone reserved for very small children and imbeciles, he repeated, "No, it's Friday." I checked my phone. It's the fifth! I checked the calendar. The fifth is a Friday!

People, I just lost two days of my life. Not a measly 45 minutes. I don't know where it went. I think this points to only one thing: alien abduction. If you watch the X-Files, you know what lost time means. I've been abducted. And it's entirely possible that I'm not carrying one single human baby. I think I am, in fact, carrying a giant alien baby with twelve arms.

Everything makes so much more sense now.