On The Dropping of Hearts and Loosening of Bowels
When you're pregnant there's some things they don't explain very clearly. For one, this whole "nine month" concept is complete bullshit. Anyone who can add can figure out that, at four weeks per month, forty weeks of pregnancy equals ten months. And even that's a lie. Cause pregnancy, in real time, actually lasts forever. You just keep on getting heftier, and revel in any passing phases, while hoping the next one will end sometime soon. You know the drill: Score! My esophagus isn't made of pure battery acid any more. But I haven't found a comfortable enough position to be able to sleep for the past three weeks, and I'm either getting a little delusional, or I really am being stalked by a herd of carnivorous purple marmots.
And you kinda forget that at some point, your actually gonna have a child. I remember the exact second when that whole part of the deal came crashing back down on me....
Dr. : So, you may be induced, you may not. Either way, they're not going to let you out of the hospital until you give birth.
Me : ..........
Okay.
Holy shit, you mean I'm going to have a baby? What kind of fucking moron would let me have a child?
And the heart stops, and the bowels drop.
That fun and funky sensation came back to me tonight, when I found my sister reading my blog. Parents came down to drop off dialysis cat, and had a good ol' family dinner. Of course, I had completely forgotten about the fact that, in a moment of complete and utter conceit, I had set my homepage as this here blog. I went for a smoke, she used the computer, the rest is history.
Suddenly, my comfort zone is so fucking shattered.
I suppose she probably didn't memorize the address, and maybe she'll have enough respect for my privacy not to read on even if she does know the address, (what with me having shit my pants when I found her and all), but still.....
I do have my secret-secret-blog-blog, but I was gonna save that for emergency purposes only. Damn. Do I now use my secret-secret-blog-blog as my slightly anonymous blog, use this blog as a family blog, and start a new blog as my super-secret-blog-blog? Somehow, that sounds like a lot of fucking work. Or do I just assume that ain't no shame, this is my game, if she doesn't respect my privacy, then let's traumatize the shit out of her, and have fun doing it?
Fuck.
And I had some good posts lined up too. I've been Ericabloggin' too much lately, that ain't my thang, needed some impulsilosophy on this here page.
Well, I guess I'm just gonna have to wait and see where this goes.
And you kinda forget that at some point, your actually gonna have a child. I remember the exact second when that whole part of the deal came crashing back down on me....
Dr. : So, you may be induced, you may not. Either way, they're not going to let you out of the hospital until you give birth.
Me : ..........
Okay.
Holy shit, you mean I'm going to have a baby? What kind of fucking moron would let me have a child?
And the heart stops, and the bowels drop.
That fun and funky sensation came back to me tonight, when I found my sister reading my blog. Parents came down to drop off dialysis cat, and had a good ol' family dinner. Of course, I had completely forgotten about the fact that, in a moment of complete and utter conceit, I had set my homepage as this here blog. I went for a smoke, she used the computer, the rest is history.
Suddenly, my comfort zone is so fucking shattered.
I suppose she probably didn't memorize the address, and maybe she'll have enough respect for my privacy not to read on even if she does know the address, (what with me having shit my pants when I found her and all), but still.....
I do have my secret-secret-blog-blog, but I was gonna save that for emergency purposes only. Damn. Do I now use my secret-secret-blog-blog as my slightly anonymous blog, use this blog as a family blog, and start a new blog as my super-secret-blog-blog? Somehow, that sounds like a lot of fucking work. Or do I just assume that ain't no shame, this is my game, if she doesn't respect my privacy, then let's traumatize the shit out of her, and have fun doing it?
Fuck.
And I had some good posts lined up too. I've been Ericabloggin' too much lately, that ain't my thang, needed some impulsilosophy on this here page.
Well, I guess I'm just gonna have to wait and see where this goes.
posted by Impulsivecompulsive | 9:13 PM
9 Comments:
I remember that feeling. It didn't hit me until my first dropped for the first time. That's when I realized that I too would go through my own nightmarish version of "the wonder of life." That's when panic sets in and you fully understand that it's not going to come out as nicely as it went in.
"my daughter dropped..." is what I meant to write.
I like wine. yum
It wasn't so much the 'coming out' I was worried about, it was the eighteen years that would follow that.
I don't really like wine. But I like beer. And gin, and scotch, and jamaican rum, and vanilla vodka (but not with coke, don't mix vodka with coke, that's just wrong. I don't care if it is vanilla, that's no excuse. Vodka goes in martinis, cocktails, and o.j. cranberry juice, or grapefruit juice.)
(And it isn't a martini if it's purple, pink, blue, green, or any rainbow colour. That's a cocktail. Just cause the name of the drink says martini, that ain't no fucking martini. A martini has gin or vodka and vermouth. That's it. You may occationally roll scotch in the glass, but just to coat the glass, not add into the drink.)
Well, I'm glad I got that out...
Dammit, forgot cognac. I like cognac too.
Cognac and rum are not for me. And I happen to like vanilla vodka with coke. Better than Pepsi. I'm with you on the martini vs. cocktails. And everything is else is good too. Just please... no rum.
You kinda made my brain bleed a little with that vodka and pepsi comment. That's just wrong.
It is wrong. Alcohol should never be mixed with Pepsi. Too much sugar.
Post a Comment
<< Home