First though I have to go meet my personal trainer to "discuss my fitness goals." So that's sort of putting me in a bad mood. Since I'm already feeling kind of stabby and pinchy (sorry Ryan) I thought it would be the perfect time to post an angry limerick I wrote months ago.
Here is the set up. Late last year I started experiencing some pain in my left-privates area. I was obviously scared that this meant I had contracted some sort of deadly jungle virus on the trip Ryan and I took to a cabin located in the wilds of Michigan with our friends. But ever since the day I woke up, turned to Ryan and, according to him, said something like:
"Oh It's Dr. Batista's birthday today. I should send her a card. Or maybe go into the office to see her, and you know what, it does seem like I've been losing more hair than usual lately, so while I'm there maybe I'll just get a quick checkup and a complete blood panel and an allergy test," I am really trying to work on my hypochondria, so I just ignored the pain.
Which was the worst idea I have ever had in my life. Because two days later something in my insides exploded, literally.
I had a CT scan that determined that a small cyst on my left ovary had most likely burst. OH and guess what else, there was another as-to-yet-unburst cyst still calling my traitor left ovary home.
So clearly my little cysters had a fight and the one cyst exploded the other in a fit of rage, but managed to stop short of a murder-suicide type situation. (This was no Romeo and Juliet story yo.) Preferring instead to lie in wait of a day when I'm probably feeling particularly happy and be all "Oh you thought you were going to Disney World today? You thought you were going to ride the Teacups and eat churros and take pictures with Belle did you? Well think again. KABLOOEY
Abso-effing-lutely Fan-effing-tastic (Sorry sorry, stabby and pinch remember?) (Sorry again Ryan)
|This picture is from the first part of our honeymoon. I had to get it off of Ryan's computer because when I opened the file entitled "Our Honeymoon" on my computer it was just three pictures of Ryan sitting on a horse. I can not stop laughing.|
So yeah, I had some angry feelings to vent. And the only way I know how to vent is to write, or pinch, apparently. (Sorry Ryan, but really you think you would have moved by now, and not continue to be sitting next to me on the couch, topless (obviously), with all your skin looking at me all pinchable-like.)
So I wrote my left ovary, the one currently playing host to the death cyst, a warning limerick.
It's not my proudest or finest poetry effort ever, but when I wrote it, I was in a dark murderous hate place with very little concern for proper pacing, meter or grammar.
There once was a hateful left ovary
that felt its girl was living life too jovially.
So the M*therF*cker burst.
And the girl, how she cursed.
Then decided she was feeling too soberly.
So she drank a Sh*t Ton of whiskey mixed with Kahlua because she was in the hospital and that was the only thing she had in her purse.
What? Don't normal people spend their time writing limericks to their lady parts?
Sidenote: When Ryan read the above sentence he was like "Well I for one can say for certain that I do not spend any time whatsoever writing limericks to my lady parts."
Oh and this limerick, and this post in general, are dedicated to my reader Cam, who I do not know in real life, but who wrote me a birthday haiku in one of her comments.
And serious poets like Cam and me implicitly understand that if you write someone a poem, they totes owe you one in return.
You all owe me poems now too blogstalkers. I'm as serious as a death cyst.
Also, I was going to just stop there, but it would make my inner nerd squirm if I didn't say that I do know that Romeo & Juliet did not end in murder-suicide but rather suicide-suicide. Phew. Feel better already.