I swear to you Interwebz, every morning I sit down at this desk and think, “How about you NOT write about this effing pregnancy today, Elly? There’s only so much people can listen to you prattle on about whether or not Fort Cervix is still on lock down. There has to be SOMETHING else to write about today.”
Then I look down.
Then I get kicked. Hard. So I stand up.
And I walk myself into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
Maybe I have myself a little snack, too.
And I feel the need to express some frustration.
And because I’m some sort of glutton for punishment, I figure why not just see if I can blind myself with mounds of excessively white flesh.
Then I get all distracted thinking about how cool it would be to go all Tupac and get a bad ass tattoo.
…and then I realize all resistance is futile and write yet another pregnancy post.