*
I think there's a baby in my belly.
Birth control a few weeks' time ago quit; I was tired of two and a-half, nearly three weeks bleeding per month. Now there's a swell and a bloat, and I've yet to bleed curse but relief-red blood. I can't tell, is my body just re-adjusting?
The day passes slow, work at last just bearable, heat just now dropping below brain-frying 90 degrees. I'm testy, the kids feel it, Shae now down, depressed and quiet to the point of surliness. Smiles heard in his voice gone again, disappeared, along with the communication - barely even answers me, simple silence speaking louder than his emotion-raddled brain. He's got good reason - money problems, family problems, issues with copyright infringement (tired shitheads of his youth stealing footage and posting it online, of skating shot for the local skate team, Shae's closest), me - but it still irritates, confounds.
Especially potentially holding his teeny tiny cell bundle inside.
Made a joke to Kay the other night, "But I drink and smoke enough that it'll probably take care of itself." Horrified, closest friend of 17 years. Me? Only half-kidding.
I roll the tiniest spliff alive tonight and light it on the back porch, sitting solid sore on a glider of some dark wood. I watch the ash as I tap the tiny rollie and realize most of it falls onto my legs. Ashes, ashes, I'll always fall down.
I'd forgotten how much those hurt when you try to stub them out with your index finger.
I think there's a baby in my belly.
Birth control a few weeks' time ago quit; I was tired of two and a-half, nearly three weeks bleeding per month. Now there's a swell and a bloat, and I've yet to bleed curse but relief-red blood. I can't tell, is my body just re-adjusting?
The day passes slow, work at last just bearable, heat just now dropping below brain-frying 90 degrees. I'm testy, the kids feel it, Shae now down, depressed and quiet to the point of surliness. Smiles heard in his voice gone again, disappeared, along with the communication - barely even answers me, simple silence speaking louder than his emotion-raddled brain. He's got good reason - money problems, family problems, issues with copyright infringement (tired shitheads of his youth stealing footage and posting it online, of skating shot for the local skate team, Shae's closest), me - but it still irritates, confounds.
Especially potentially holding his teeny tiny cell bundle inside.
Made a joke to Kay the other night, "But I drink and smoke enough that it'll probably take care of itself." Horrified, closest friend of 17 years. Me? Only half-kidding.
I roll the tiniest spliff alive tonight and light it on the back porch, sitting solid sore on a glider of some dark wood. I watch the ash as I tap the tiny rollie and realize most of it falls onto my legs. Ashes, ashes, I'll always fall down.
I'd forgotten how much those hurt when you try to stub them out with your index finger.
