In the past hour, while eating dinner with Jeff and The Parents at our kitchen table, I have had the following thoughts:
...Melted raclette smells worse than feet.
Melted raclette is my favorite food.
Was that a fleeting breast pain?
What's that leaking sensation down under?
Oh, god, I'm miscarrying, aren't I?
You fucking idiot, it's just vaginal discharge.
Boy, I've had so much vaginal discharge lately.
I wonder if that's a sign that I could be pregnant?
You fucking idiot, you are pregnant?
Oh, right, forgot.
How can you forget?
My in-laws are the best.
I love my in-laws.
I wish they lived up the street.
I wonder if she thinks we're gluttons with all of this rich food?
She's looking at me with a trace of disappointment.
I hate feeling like I'm disappointing people.
It would be so nice if they'd go away for a while.
I wonder if they'll ever leave.
You fucking idiot, they leave in the morning for four days.
When they're gone, I can be one with my TiVo again!
I haven't seen any TV in ages.
I've read such good books, I don't think I need TV.
I should get rid of TiVo.
What's that wet sensation?
I wonder what changes they'll make to my protocol in October.
Can they give me more stims?
Sure would be nice if it worked.
It already worked.
You fucking idiot, you're pregnant.
God, raclette smells vile, like feet...