I forgot to post something yesterday. And I missed the first day of the month. I am absolutely challenged by following the parameters of this blog challenge. Get it? ‘Cause it’s a blog challenge? And I’m challenged by it? Shut up, I probably can’t have kids.
I should have t-shirts and buttons and business cards made that say that, that way when I inevitably screw up I can just hand people a card or point to the t-shirt or shiny button I’m wearing and silently frown at them, daring them to judge me with their judgmental, fibroid-free uteri and sperm-filled penises. Gross.
When my brain got the message that my hopes of conceiving, carrying, and birthing fat, brown, sweet-potato pie babies were most likely dashed, it immediately decided that the most logical response was for me to stop all efforts at grooming and personal hygiene beyond what could be accomplished with wet wipes. I can imagine my brain shouting orders to the rest of my body like the foreman of some never to be completed, poorly planned construction site:
“All right folks, let’s shut her down! Get those armpits funky and furry! Do not send any additional blood flow to the limbs! That could encourage her to get up out of the bed and/or recliner! Make sure those pupils focus in on the satin bonnet and not the Denman brush and Aussie Moist conditioner! What she can’t see won’t hurt her. Olfactory department, you’ll simply have to get used to the smell. It’s what you were designed for, dammit. I’ll increase her cravings for Oreos, that way any efforts to brush her teeth will be absolutely futile! Why bother, with the beautiful black crust that’s gonna form on her molars? It’s gonna be magnificent, boys! Magnificent!”
Don’t worry; I had to go back to work today, which meant I had to shower and brush my teeth for the good of mankind. My brain tried to fight it, though. I could smell my armpits trying to karate chop against my organic raw shea butter soap as I scrubbed away at them with the wash rag. I poured a little extra soap down the drain in their memory. They lost the battle and the war. Damn.
It’s weird how my brain goes into shutdown mode when things get fucked up, especially because almost immediately after shutdown mode commences, it decides that I want to buy ALL the make up and do ALL the hair and be ALL the Beyonce. Or at least Shangela (and I’m always screaming “Dag, why can’t we be Jujubee?!?”).
Do you remember that episode of “Sex and the City” that I’m not going to bother to link to? You know, the one where Charlotte has a miscarriage and won’t go to Brady’s birthday party and stops taking showers and stuff and gives up on life and then she watches the “E! True Hollywood Story” on Elizabeth Taylor or something and Liz is all “When life is shitty, just put on some lipstick, some pumps, and be like, ‘Fuck that; bitch, I is fabulous.'” That was Liz’s quote, word for word. It’s even on her grave and everything.
Well, Charlotte did put on some lipstick and some pumps, along with this pink dress that was completely inappropriate for a child’s birthday party, which I think is the absolute right thing to do when you don’t and maybe can’t have kids: wear some shit that you should not be wearing to remind everyone that you don’t or can’t have kids to make them feel bad about their lives and/or bad for you because why should all the attention be on some stupid baby that probably can’t even talk or doesn’t even have it’s own blog?
And that is the moral of this story: shut up and pay attention to me, because I probably can’t have kids and did not plan a proper ending for this particular post.