Late and/ or flustered, applies to everything

Well, that’s that term over, and all the many many essays and projects have been handed in, and I have been a student for three months and it has all been rather frazzling, but I haven’t actually flipped out and bitten anyone or run away to Zambia, though I was tempted, and I apologise unreservedly to H for screaming at him for cooking dinner one iota of a jotness differently from the way I would have cooked it, on that night when I had to stay up until three to finish my last essay and he offered to cook to I didn’t have to stay up until four.

*Ahem*

My ovary has taken all this to mean it can lie back on the cushion of my bladder, eating cherries and spitting the pips at my diaphragm. It is day 52 of this particular cycle (cycle! Hah!) and it has done nothing, NOTHING, I tell you.

And I have taken to wearing eye make-up to distract the onlooker’s gaze from my fluffy upper lip (‘Look into my eyes, look into my eyes, not around the eyes, look into my eyes, you’re under. There is no moustache, you have noticed no moustache.’) What’s worse, my own Frida Kahlo Tribute Lip, or a mass of scabs and blotches from botched fuzz-removal experiments? Ahhh, PCOS and its many many Minions of Petty Humiliation.

I have been trying to exercise more, and damn me if I haven’t succeded. Therefore my weight has not changed an ounce, my hips have got thinner, and my tummy, err, hasn’t, which is unfortunate, as I now look less curvaceous and more like I swallowed a watermelon whole, which somehow doesn’t seem to be the point of exercising.

Of course, the lazy half-wit that is my ovary has put so much oestrogen into my blood-stream that H and I are on permanent Duty, as it were, in case the ‘fertile’ signs really are fertile and ovulatory and not, as we both bloody well know, said ovary fucking about. Poor H. He’s always been moderate in his desires, and his idea of the perfect sex-life would be every Saturday morning, in a leisurely fashion, followed by breakfast in bed and a nice little walk to the newsagents for the weekend papers. Personally, I could do with a bit more than that, being as I find H the most delicious person to nuzzle in the entire Universe and also, am and always have been Carnally Inclined. Alas, at this time in our lives, we HAVE to do it my way, ie, several times a week, just in exceedingly bloody unlikely indeed case. It is Very Trying. H is doing very well indeed, bless him, but the whole set up is fraught with grounds for hurt feelings and other deeply unerotic misunderstandings.

Oh, and it’s Christmas next week.

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