Funk

I seem to have run out of things to say.

Actually, I have a great many things to say, all in half-written, unpublished posts. Most of them are bitchy. Some are sort of funny, but they're mostly dumb.

It's all the same shit. Shaking my fist at universe. It's tired.

Maybe it's because these drugs make me feel slightly comatose. Or maybe it's my fear creeping back in. We could be pregnant this month. Holy fuck. Parents don't go to strip clubs.

To quote the very great Timbaland, who always knows what to say: Dirty babe, see these shackles baby I'm your slave, I'll let you whip me if I misbehave, it's just that no one makes me feel this way. *take em to the bridge!*

I don't know.

But, in efforts to keep track of the "JOURNEY," I shall record where we're at. I started stims a week ago (Repronex and Gonal F). Doctor: Everything Fantastic! Cetrotide last night and everynight to retrieval, which is scheduled for Monday. Transfer Friday, barring withering embryos.




Izzy izzy ahh zizah zizah za.