For *those that have just lost their keys *those that are well-versed *inebriated ones *wanderers *mermaids *those that belong elsewhere *whippersnappers *marvelous ones *those that are not included in this classification *those that flutter because the moment is fleeting *boundless ones *those colored with slippery fingerpaint *others *those that resemble someone I know from a distance

Friday, September 16, 2005

I hate my uterus. Part II

So I am on the phone with Chris, holding back tears in my office because, oh I don't know, a student who didn't speak English very well made me sad, I saw a bird with a limp, someone asked me for change on the street, I don't know what I want to do with my life, what's the point of all this anyway, etc., etc. And something starts to seem vaguely familiar. And it's not just that Chris is the person I always call when I am on the verge of tears. The poor bastard. And then I realize - this same thing happened exactly four weeks ago.

Holy fuck. I am a prisoner of my own reproductive system. And there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. Except bust out the champagne, measuring cup, and cigarettes.

Chris, thank you for being the bestest best friend a girl could ever wish for. I wish I was one of your internal organs, so we could always take naps together.

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