Just now The Dude and I were sitting at the table, each finishing up our cheese quesadillas (yes, I made cheese quesadillas at 7 a.m., I don't enjoy breakfast food) - he with his cheek in one palm, his eyes on "Fairly Oddparents," chewing slowly, me reading an article about the awesomeness that is Neil Patrick Harris in last week's Entertainment Weekly in an attempt to catch up (this week's cover features Jim and Pam from "The Office," and I have way too much to do to have to yearn to get to it any time soon). This is an early morning routine for us - while he is okay with launching straight from the bed and into a stream of conversation, I am not. I need time. He indulges me.
After chewing and lightly tossing the remainder of a crispy triangle to his plate, much like a teenage boy would discard the crust of pizza, he sighed and ran his small, pudgy hands over his eyes. I glanced up.
"You sure? Feel okay?"
He nodded, his eyes still on the TV. "Yeah. I'm just complicated."