Off the table, for now.

I don’t think I can do today.  I really, really, really don’t want to.  Been living on adrenaline and restraint all weekend, for no goddamned good reason.  How am I supposed to muscle through on pure disappointment?  When did I forget to keep expectations at zero?  SHIT.  This blows.  That is all.

I swear to Thor if they keep me sitting in that little exam room for half an hour waiting for dude to read some shit off my chart I’m going to lost my ever loving fried egg mind.  Take an effing hammer to the pictures of babies and moms on the walls.  Dammit dammit dammit.  I just don’t wanna.  I can’t be officially that girl…yet…but…hi.  That’d be my chart, yes.  I don’t think it lies, unfortunately.  Sorry, but this is just the stupidest self-inflicted irony I’ve ever made myself suffer through.  I left that office with hormonal birth control ON MY PERSON on Friday.  I was ready to let this whole thing go for the summer, quit thinking about timing for a while.  Let it go, let it go, let it go.  I was frankly SHOCKED like an idiot that it was even positive.  Oh sex?  Yeah, I’ve heard that can lead to pregnancy.  The whole actual baby thing is just lost on me, though.  Lost.  Not sticky.  DUNZO.  It’s a rare man who can appreciate a good tale of vaginal bleeding so I’ll just gloss right over that whole thing (pretty, huh?) and just say that I’m a super idiot for even thinking for a second that a third time might be more charming than eye-stabbingly futile.  Kill me now.  I don’t wanna deal with this.  I’m pretty sure I can’t afford to deal with this.  I’m going to have to tell my mother and end up trying not to steal my sister’s wedding thunder with stupid non-baby drama.  Kill me again.  I guess if there’s any silver lining here I could still hope that I won’t need a D&C.  Because an abortion that’s not an abortion would just be the tongue-tied stem-knotted booze-soaked cherry on top.  Whatever.  Seriously.  Whatever.  Kill me later, too.

So, what I WILL get out of this are a bunch of numbers.  I may put them here to keep some sort of track of what they may mean, if anything, but I really, really, RILLY don’t want to turn this place into an infertility blog.  Puke.  I didn’t ever even really want this to turn into a mommy blog, but that I word’s even harder to write than I HAD A MISCARRIAGE.  Puke, puke, puke.  I may just.  PUKE.  But hey!  In three days I get to go on “vacation” to see my sibs-in-law again!  That’ll be awesome.  Riiigghttt.  Here’s to fresh starts.  Seriously.  Cheers.

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