Thank you to everyone who sent their well wishes…everyone apart from you Mr H, who decided to side with Spawn on the whole Man-flu issue. No ready salted Chipsticks for you.
I’m fairly certain that I’m dying. Whilst Spawn is bouncing around like a newly born lamb, unaware that somewhere out there, a meat grinder awaits him, doom awaits my sorry arse. Even as I type, I can feel the hollow stare of Death as he stands in the corner, flinging his scythe around like a baton twirler, while waiting to cheerlead me on into the afterlife.
I am beyond fatigued, and yet the house looks as though Hurricane Big Bertha has come-a-visiting and brought along all her other little Hurricane friends with her…bitch. This is a sure sign that Spawn is indeed feeling much better.
Coupled with that, not only has the good Lord seen fit to send forth a meal of the most virulent strain of the Bitch Sniffles, but he has also decided to bless me with a side order of menstruation…misogynist. This has proven to be problematic in the extreme as my uterus and I do not see eye to eye. In fact, my uterus hates me. Every month and sometimes twice a month, we get into the same old argument.
Okay guys, you can open your eyes now…until next month, where I will be detailing my bowel movements along with my hemorrhoids…via a slideshow…