Gentle readers, you’ve all made me cry. So many of you peeking out of the undergrowth or wandering over from LFCA, just to let me know I am not alone (even if I play one on television). (Incidentally, whoever gave my name to LFCA, I hug you. I hug you madly).
In all news TMI, I have thoroughly confused my uterus. I started spotting this afternoon, and was all thank-fuckitty. Cute Ute gave me a startled look and texted: ‘Srsly? Cuz I thot we wuz all about the NO BLEEDENING NOT NOW NOT EVAH!’
‘Well’, I texted back (and I always spell my texts correctly and leave in all the articles. I used to proof-read for money. Eat my shorts) ‘That was when we still hoped Zombryo would make some kind of half-assed go at staying alive. Now that we can be sure Staying Alive is not on the agenda, we, the Management, would like the eviction to proceed as quietly, painlessly and above all quickly as possible. Carrying the dying remains of my beloved husband’s and my commingled DNA about for weeks gives me the heebie-jeebies.’
‘U iz 20 kinds of fuckin indecisive, man.’
‘I’m indecisive? This from an organ that has spent the past three years playing ‘is you is or is you ain’t mah fibroid?’
‘Talk to the fimbriae, cuz the fundus ain’t listening.’
‘Dear Christ, what’s with the attitude, Uterus? Listen, you’re 35 already. I’d say bloody act like it, but there’s so many ways that could backfire it gives me a headache.’
‘WhatEVAH.’
‘Bring it on, bitch.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘OK. Okay. O. KAY.’
And then everything went silent. Hello? Hellooo in there? Cute? Are you listening? Anyone?
Damn.
Nuts in May 