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I am 39 weeks pregnant.



Z keeps comparing my physique to that of a snake that has swallowed an egg. Much as I cannot fault his observational skills, I nevertheless feel that his poetry needs work.

I am very hot and somewhat irritable. My shins are covered with bruises on account of the sharp edges of the bed and my stomach-hampered navigational abilities.

For the last three nights my Uterus has also been fucking with me like so: - at roughly 1am, begin contractions regular and powerful enough to make me all jiggety with nervousness and excitement of thinking "Labour! Has begun!". I commence relaxation and sleep breathing techniques taught to me by hippies. I fall asleep. I wake up in the morning still pregnant.

I have now officially Had Enough. The house is cleaner than it has been in years, the bathrooms are sparkling, and aside from a not-especially urgent trip to IKEA my To-Do list has been shown what's what.

Raspberrry leaf tea is being drunk with mild grimaces. Chillies are becoming integral for my cooking. My jawline is acquiring a grim set.

At least the cat has no problem with waiting.

a portrait of indolence

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rainsinger
Jul. 21st, 2010 07:23 pm (UTC)
So many of my life decisions seemed like such a good idea at the time, but this has taught me that I am only euqipped to gestate children in the depths of winter when my self-generated heat will be both economically and ptractically sound.
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rainsinger
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