Next time, the wolf will eat me.

I never got to play with my new expensive pee-sticks. I started spotting and cramping instead.

Thank you all for your kind words and support. I feel deeply peeved that we couldn’t finish the weekend off with a celebratory can-can and fire-work display. That would have been much more fun, yes? Yes, well. I know. Disappointment, after all that build-up. It’s a giant, hairy, pimply arse, isn’t it?

As for you, Cute Ute, you disgrace to the name of internal organ, you’ve spent two and a half days playing a giant game of Chicken with your poor benighted hostess, you’ve raised everybody’s hopes, you’ve been, in short, showing off in the worst possible way. You’ve let me down. You’ve let H down. You’ve let the entire bloody internet down. But worst of all, you’ve let yourself down. And now you shall have to put up with the consequences. Yes, and they’re not very nice consequences either, are they? You should’ve thought of that before embarking on your lively career as Drama Queen and Hysteric*. Now, stop snivelling, be brave, and take your pain-killers.

(Positive Thinking Fairy wishes to note, at this point, that a 14 day luteal phase is not to be sneezed at, and I should be pleased my body seems to be more healthy and regular. Shall I hold her down while you lot kick her, or do you want to hold while I kick?)

*Ooh, go me with the bilingual punning across the centuries. I’m so funny I just slay myself.


14 responses to “Next time, the wolf will eat me.

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