Feeling: furious
Listening to: coffeehouse music
Reading/Watching: nothing

If you're a boy who is easily grossed out, turn back now.

My period is a week off.

Again.

Two months ago, it was five days late, which prompted days of "oh em eff gee, are we pregnant?" between mon coeur and me (and some small disappointment when we found out we weren't). Then it was on time. Now it's early.

I'm sure my emotional state has something to do with it, but still... jeebus. I can't just go racketing all over the place when I'm worked up over something. I've been on the pill for over three years, people. It's time my body got its shit together.

I'm so tired of this. Three years ago, on March 20, 2005, my world turned upside down when a stomach ache became a cantaloupe-sized growth on my ovary which became bye bye, half my ladyparts.

I'm only working with 50% productivity, and even that half is being stubborn and butting heads with the birth control, saying "No, silly, I like my hormones this way."

Because God forbid my body do something right for once. I never asked it to be flawless, or lovely, or graceful, or even fucking well-proportioned (okay, maybe I did, but it said no, so I gave up), but I would like it to function on its most basic level, since I do so many favors for it. I eat vegetables, I stay active (relatively), I don't smoke or do drugs, I don't drink excessively, I don't hurl myself off cliffs or out of planes.

So, body, what do you fucking want?! Have you just decided that being capable of having kids someday is just too much of a hassle, so you're going to dump the other ovary and chillax until we're eighty? Did you think that pregnancy weight would just freak me out too much, and so you're bypassing it entirely? Do you know something I don't know? Would I be a shitty mother? Would I fuck 'em up irreparably, so you're just going to sabotage the workings, or are you that fucking worried about overpopulation that you'll tackle it one ovary at a time?!

Sigh. I'm going to stop before I spin even more out of control. Mrph.

Edited to add: I'm a bit calmer now, but I'm still scared. And a bit pissed. I'm sick of sitting under this sword of Damocles. I'm sick of feeling like my biological clock is a ticking time bomb. I'm sick of having the same fucking nightmare every single time I'm a day or two off. I'm sick of worrying about whether this is ever going to happen for me. Or whether this isn't, and how I'll cope with it.

If my body is going to rebel against the simplest of functions, I'll just say screw you, and pull a Josephine Baker and adopt 12 kids. (Mon coeur is officially on board.)

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