October 25, 2010
I hate you. I hate you so much. I don't even know what you smell like, except that once upon a time I thought it was fairly nice but now it's the loudest, most-gag-inducing smell I have ever smelled, and I once spent my first trimester in an office with a coworker who liked her English muffins "blackened" every single damn morning. I hate you especially hard when your loud, gag-inducing, flowery, musky, whatever scent combines with the smell of the toothpaste or the shampoo or GOD HELP ME, the drain de-clogger stuff we keep having to use because MY HAIR IS FALLING OUT and honestly I think that's only about half-pregnancy symptom and half-stress-from-dealing-with-YOU and maybe some memories of the aforementioned burnt English muffins.
PS. Even though Jason moved you to the guest bathroom down the hall I CAN STILL SMELL YOU.
I love you. I have always loved you. Why do you hate me all of a sudden? Why do you want to hurt me? What did I do?
Whatever it is I'm sorry,
I have to bring my two-year-old to my appointment this afternoon. Please let me keep my pants on.
I'm undoing the top button and you can just shut up about it, okay?
You are eight weeks pregnant, not eight months. Simmer down there, Puffy McBloaterchin.
Where did you even find that book? Who told you? You're kind of freaking me out, man.
Love you anyway,