My muse wanted me to tell you that she’s been rockin’ and rollin’ pretty heartily recently. She has knocked back some stiff drinks, tickled my brain with the naughty feather, and laughed in my ear. I have grinned, typed, and clickity clacked away at my keyboard, happily.
She also wants you to know that tonight, she’d love to help me out and provide some great content for you, however, she’s been struggling to keep her head above the muck inside the swirling vat of menstrual hormones that is MY ENTIRE BEING right now. Earlier, she was doing the drowning sign and gasping for air. I gave her the finger and told her to “fend, bitch” because I have my own shit to deal with, okay?
She is currently fleeing from my angry, rampaging uterus, which is running at her full force, prepared to bludgeon her to death with an engorged tampon. It has already threatened to create a hostage situation with a list of demands if it can capture her. That ho bettah run, because here at Casa SarcMom we do NOT negotiate with Effing Terrorists. Or Asshole Uteri.
In defense of the out-of-control uterus, it feels like a damn badger is gnawing on it, and just in case you’re wondering? NO. THAT DOES NOT FEEL GOOD. It feels… how do they say it? AbsofackinlutelyCraptastic.
So that great content? Uh… yeah.
Also? Who the hell authorized there being NO WINE IN MY HOUSE RIGHT NOW?
I might have to burn it down just to make a point.
I’m going to go punch myself in the uterus really hard (knock that damn badger loose) and then look for the matches.
Someone send booze.