After this, I will never type a post about being pregnant again. There are more facinating things in life than procreating and documenting each and every twist and unexpected turn that it takes. Case in point...
Why am I currently typing this up in just a pair of (stolen) scrubs? No, I don't resemble a doctor ambitiously finishing up some files after a long days work. That is unless it is normal for a doctor to be topless and sweating bullets under her saggy ass boobs. My top was discarded hours ago when I decided that if SSL could air out his balls without being read the miranda rights, then I could treat my tattas the same. I mean, shit, they hang so low now that they might as well be mistaken for a nutsack.
For the past few
years weeks I have been unbearable to be around and I take full responsibility for my crazy obsession with "losing my cool". I just want this damn baby to emerge from planet stretch marks already. Funny how that happened this time around... I have been thinking about ways to explain those hideous lines as well. Not being one for tattoos, I am thinking that I can just tell people that I was once in a street gang and when I was getting jumped in, they slashed me up with a boxcutter, creating an abstract version of previous motherhood. After all, the stretch marks are only on one side of my stomach. How fucking odd is that? So so far there are stretch marks, saggy neanderthal boobies, 55 extra pounds that my body is allocating in the most unfemenine spots, so much relaxin (a pregnancy hormone) being poduced by my body that my gait now looks like I am a penguin and an unmanicured jungle bush that I haven't seen since March. Maybe I should get it braided so that when I go into labor, the doctor will know where my hair ends and the baby's begins. 2 more weeks of this madness and I promise that I will NEVER EVER EVER have another child.
