Today is Monday. Not Monday as in "today," but Monday as in September the 3rd, one day after the Bears have defeated the Colts by the score of 41-21. You did not have the day off and thus, went to work. Jay Cutler, despite having the day off, arrives home an hour late without the milk. It's always the milk, and sometimes the bread, but always the milk. The baby is probably crying and the TV is probably on and the in-laws are probably over and he probably did not think this one all the way through. The show must go on, however, and the producers have the right to portray him in whichever light they feel fit. It says it all right there in the MTV contract he signed.
Jay Cutler awakens to the TV shooting multicolor rays through the darkened room. Kristin is absorbed in Laguna Beach reruns, armed with a notebook and a pencil with the pink, fluffy shit sprouting from where the eraser should be. She's scribbling furiously, her head no more than an inch above the page.
"What are you doing, babe?"
"Don't worry about it, honey. Go back to sleep."
His head sinks back into the fluff of the pillow, not at all like being driven head-first into the cement turf. Kristin is asleep beside him, her blonde hair splayed across her more numerous, fluffier pillows. Jay Cutler peels away layers upon layers of bed covers and sheets and blankets. He's honestly fine with a simple comforter, and Kristin claims to be fine with a simple comforter, but he knows better. They'd switch to one comforter, a nice navy blue one, for instance, and within a week she'd start to drop subtle hints.
"Isn't it cold in here? Don't you feel cold, babe? Gosh, maybe we should have at least kept another blanket in the spare closet."
Wanting to prevent another loveseat incident, he sticks with 20-some layers. By the time he figures out how to untangle himself, the baby, Camden Jack, is crying in the other room.
Jay Cutler picks up his child. Cam, he secretly calls him. Kristin prefers Cam-DEN, his God-given name, and is quick to correct anyone who thinks different. The baby is light and awkwardly shaped, although not as light and awkwardly shaped as a football. He could still probably fling this baby a good 75 yards though, even without laces. But these are not his drunken Vandy days when he may have actually attempted the feat. This is a child, his child, and he is a responsible father now.
"You know, Cam, I'm going to throw four interceptions and be sacked seven times this Thursday."
Jay Cutler knows this because he dreamt it earlier. The dream was not prophetic, as many people believe dreams to be. Our brains do not rest with our bodies, so when our bodies rest, our brains need to think of something to do to fill the time. They stimulate themselves by splicing together familiar thoughts and images to paint a bustling, yet incoherent picture. The result, a dream, is really just the brain having some downtime fun. We provide any and all meaning to a dream, which, by definition, will always be wrong. Be this as it may, a seed of doubt is planted into Jay Cutler's head.
"Cam, people are going to say a lot of things about me. Some true and some untrue. When you get older, you're going to Google my name and read all sorts of shit and wonder what I was really like when you were a baby.
Cam, you're never going to read stuff like this."