Killing Hormone Time.

Me: outside is dangerous, you know.
James: I’ve never met anyone who hates being outside more than you do.
Me: I’m super special. If I was in the FBI I’d be Super-Special Agent Taylor
James: You’re certainly something…
Me: I went outside to water the plants and walked through a spider web.
James: A web is not dangerous.
Me: But there *could* have been a spider in it so I started hitting myself in the face trying to kill any spiders and get rid of the web.
James: *silent*
Me: And then I realised that it wasn’t actually a web, it was a stray strand of hair that blew across my face. It hurt when I tugged at it.
James: More than hitting yourself in the face?
Me: Anyway so now I’m just going to let all the plants die. It’s not worth the risk.

And then I went back into my office to keep working and found that Bobcat had challenged Frankie to the Ultimate Farting Championship Heavyweight Title. A giant cat farting on the desk in front of me, a giant dog farting on the floor behind me. We’re never feeding either of them ever again. I think they were trying to gas me out so Frankie could jump on the computer and look up porn and Bobcat could google a good therapist.

Inside can be just as dangerous as outside, people.

Baby, I Know It

A whole week on Syneral. Oh, the headaches. Someone sedate me, please, I am psychotic again and moodiness just isn’t moodiness without randomly screaming ‘why can’t I get Barry fucking Manilow on this radio?’

Anyway. I think James is looking for something to put me to sleep. Not just for the night, either. The kind of sleep that’s followed by a funeral…

James: Myyyyy… way… to… the… danger zone…
Me: It’s ‘Highway,’ dickhead, not ‘my way.’
James: It’s ‘my way.’
Me: It’s ‘highway.’ There is only one way. It’s not like you’ve put ‘the danger zone’ into our satnav and its asked ‘do you want the shortest route to the danger zone, or the route with the best roads?’ There is only one way. The highway.
James: It’s ‘my way.’
Me: No, ‘My Way to the Danger Zone’ sounds like Frank Sinatra singing Danger Zone. And I’m pretty sure Frank Sinatra never felt the need.
James: The need?
Me: The need… for speed.
James: Google it.
Me: Fine. *googles* ha, dickhead, it is highway. Don’t try to fuck with a Top Fun fan.
James: I don’t even care.
Me: I know why.
James: Mmm?
Me: You never close your eyes… anymore when I kis your lips.
James: I know what you’re doing.
Me: And there’s no tenderness, like before, in your finger tips.
James: Please stop.
Me: You’re trying hard not to show it… but baby. Baby, I kno-ow it…
James: Here we fucking go.
Me: You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling… whoa-oh that looooovin’ feeling… you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling now it’s gone, gone, gone, whoa-oh-oh-oh.

And at that point James left the room, so I had to sing extra loud in case he couldn’t hear me any more and then I followed him around the house singing that he’s got no lovin’ feeling but then I tripped over the cat. And stopped singing.

But if I ever had to choose a wingman? It would totally be James.

Bribing Ovaries Is Harder Than It looks

So I’ve started my nasal spray for a down regulation cycle and you’d think that the whole ‘point-and-spray’ of a nasal spray would be super easy. Last night I missed my nostril all together and squirted it up the side of my face and into my eye. And started panicking that it would burn my eyeball out or leave my cheek hideously scarred. It took a good thirty seconds of frantic rinsing to realise that if the spray was that dangerous, they probably wouldn’t get me to spray it up my nose. Thank you, logic, for your late arrival. The situation wasn’t even covered in the little sheet that comes with it. I’m that clumsy, I require medical fact sheets to be re-written.

My point is, don’t give clumsy people medication that requires co-ordination. Needles are fine, my biggest worry there is having to do them so early in the morning that I haven’t woken up properly and I accidentally inject the cat. Who is currently leaving so much hair on my carpet that I’m thinking of cutting out the middle man and just vacuuming him. But every time I even look at him with the turbo head in my hand, he gives me this ‘bring it, bitch’ flick of the tail which means it’s on like Donkey Kong. I’m all like ‘oh yes I will’ and he’s all like ‘oh no you won’t or I’ll wee on the iPad’ and I’m all like ‘go ahead, loser, it’s James’ iPad not mine’ and then he’s all like ‘fine then I’ll get into your top draw again and bat all your tampons up and out and all over the house for your visitors to find in strange places’ and so I lose to the cat. Again.

Anyway. I’m too clumsy for nasal spray. Hell, I own plastic glasses because I’m too clumsy to have nice glass glasses. It’s not my fault though, because I have some kind of Munchausen’s by Proxy which makes me inflict pain on inanimate objects for sympathy. True story.

So I thought I could just try and work up a sweet deal instead of all the meds this time, but then the following conversation took place, possibly entirely in my own mind, and looks like the nasal spray is the only option:

My ovaries: Oh Lord, won’t you buy me, a Mercedes Be-enz…
Me: Are you trying to bribe me?
My Ovaries: My friends all drive porches…
Me: They do not.
My Ovaries: I must make a-mends. Worked hard all my lifetime…
Me: No you have not. You’ve done the opposite. You’ve worked un-hard all your lifetime. That’s why we’re doing IVF. Because you are lazy as, and can’t be arsed producing follicles.
My Ovaries: Maybe we would if we had a little incentive.
Me: A Mercedes Benz?
My Ovaries: Exactly.
Me: How about the next verse? A colour TV? Look, we bought you one. A shiny 54” plasma. For you.
My Ovaries: That’s not for us. You’ve had it for ages. You have to buy us something.
Me: It’s not for me. I’m blind. What the hell do I want with a giant TV? I’d be perfectly happy with one of those portable black and white tellys.
My Ovaries: We’re going to consult our union on this.
Me: Oh don’t start that shit again.
My ovaries: We have poor working conditions.
Me: that would be really bad. If you ever did any work. We both know you’re too lazy to take any industrial action.
My Ovaries: Not true. We already went online and ordered some miniature placards off vista print.
Me: Ho-ly shit. You’re staging a picket line in my abdomen.
My Ovaries: Pay up, bitch.
Me: or what?
My Ovaries: We’ll hold all your eggs hostage.
Me: uh, dudes, that’s pretty much what you’ve been doing anyway.
My Ovaries: Oh. Right. Well. We’ll release them one at a time until our demands are met.
Me: Which is like a 100 per cent performance increase.
My ovaries: You’re not making this easy.
Me: I don’t negotiate with terrorists. Get back to work.
My Ovaries: *sigh* okay. Fine. What-ev. Talk to the hand.
Me: You don’t have hands.
My Ovaries: This is discrimination.
Me: If you had tiny little hands, then maybe I could grease your palms with a little pay off.
My Ovaries: And we could use them to flip you the bird. Or do lines of cocaine.
Me: you guys are like Charlie Sheen meets Robert Downey Junior.
My Ovaries: Now all we need is those hands and some teeny tiny prostitutes in here.
Me: I’ll buy you a Mercedes if you shut up now.
*silence*