Once upon a time we were friends and you sat innocently in my jeans. Then I tore a baby head through you and now you won’t even talk to me. This is getting ugly. Watch it. They’ll turn on you.
It reminds me of an old, weird Blind Melons song…
Once there was this girl who
had a little baby and then she couldn’t procreate them
And when she finally saw why
she…
had…
red marks all over her “body”
Never could explain it
They always seemed to beeeeeeeee thereeeee….
Ummm mmmm mmm mmm umm mmm mmm mmm…..
If you don’t know that song then it’s just best you never know what you missed out on.
I’m thinking I’ll sing that song tomorrow before my surgery as a way to express my feelings and relieve some stress like Mary Katherine Gallagher doing a monologue. I can’t believe this time tomorrow night I will be hyped on pain killers and not even able to sit-up straight while Lance holds our baby and she cries for me because she wonders why in the broken crotches I just won’t get up and get her. It’s gonna be hard on all of us, kid. Speaking of that kid, I think she should have to pay for my surgery since it’s on account of her head circumference.
Now that I’ve wasted your time with this blog, spend the rest of your day redeeming your wasted time and pray for my surgery to work tomorrow. This is the final frontier, the fat lady singing, the beginning of the vaginal end. If this doesn’t work then I will need to order a new one. How else can I replenish the earth with cute babies if not with an adequate baby portal? And what about Lance? His might turn on him too if mine keeps turning on me and then things would really be out of hand. Poooooooor body parts. This is sad story.
But seriously, get ahold of yourself and keep me as the focus here.
If any of you want to talk to me while I’m on sedatives then call me around mid-day tomorrow at 567-0345. That’s not really my number but you could talk to someone else who you can’t catch broken crotch from.
So here I go a splicing and dicing, a clippin and a cloppin’, a cuttin’ and a buttin’. Chitty chitty bang bang.
Hopefully in six weeks from now I’ll be singing oh blah dee, oh blah dah. If not, send me flowers. Or breathable large panties.
