All the Horrible Girliness

I'm having decaf again, the office swill. I've heard something horrible about chemically decaffeinated coffee, and how you should make sure it isn't, and how it will out-and-out lie about being non-chemically decaffeinated right on the package, but I am just too overwhelmed right now to delve into the scary world that is my office decaf swill. It tastes good, and there is so little I can drink that makes my tongue teh happy right now, and I get about a dozen envelopes a day from hospitals and insurance companies and laboratories that need to be deciphered that I just can't give a shit about whether my unborn child is sucking up chemicals from my decaf.

Rosetta stones need to be included in the envelopes of these fucking medical bills. They have incomplete or incorrect insurance information; please remit payment in 21 days, unless your insurance will cover it in which case fill out the back of this sheet with your insurance information and make your check out to Unilab. What? If I think my insurance will cover it I need to make out a check? When picturing the people who draft these letters, I can't decide whether it's a svelte, leather-clad dominatrix with nipple clamps slung over one shoulder, a half-cocked smile and a clove cigarette, or whether it's just a little Dr. Seuss character with ADD and mild schizophrenia.

Oh yes. And their 800 number is busy. Boy, did their junk email box ever get a scalding letter from me!

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A few new developments, babywise. I now feel it moving on a regular basis when there is no gas or turd movage on which it can otherwise be blamed.

Last week, the whole kit and caboodle moved upward into my belly. It had been a bump just below my belly button, making pants buttons annoying but otherwise just looking like a pooch, but last week I felt something like forklifts and moving vans pushing intestines aside. This resulted in pain, pulling, severe gastrointestinal ownage and more pain. It seems to have settled down, but my intestines are still on strike and now my clothes absolutely refuse to fit. I tried on the Rock & Republic jeans and they laughed. I heard their designer price tag cackling at me all the way from the landfill where it now lives.

I also have what I hope is an irrational fear: that the kid moved between ropes of intestine, leaving a tube of it around the front, and when everything really moves outward, it will burst open and I'll have to live the rest of my life like the guy in Chuck Palahniuk's "Guts".

Something like nesting took over on Sunday and I became a cleaning hobitch. Poor Mr. Aran. I slept like a drugged person that morning and he sat there thinking sweetly about breakfast and maybe hitting a museum or a dayspa (he isn't gay, I think). I rose at 11:30 looking like something between Baal and the Cow Level in D2, and he was still on a naked corpse run. His dreams of a relaxing Sunday turned into filling a dumpster with unused stuff and hitting, not some avionics museum, but Costco for a new vacuum and Brita.

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We did end up playing some exhausted WoW. We rolled up a cute pair of dorf hunters and ran around until level 8 or so, then abandoned them for a brand new mage twink. It's important to remember, when you burn out, to play it on your own terms, to have no guilt about rolling up a NE just to watch her purple ass or go PvP in BB in the middle of a lot of high-level alliance just to see how fast you'll die. I played D2 for a couple of years and never went very far into the Hell level. Nightmare was my favorite, so I just rolled character after character, usually paladins, just to play them through Nightmare and get bored with them. It's tough when you have an uberguild that's already smoked Onyxia, with members who tirelessly spend their days drinking Coke and farming fire resist gear, but in the end, it isn't a fucking job.

posted by Samus @ 1:01 PM