Dear This Pregnancy,

I don’t know what I ever did to you, This Pregnancy, but you’ve picked the wrong woman.

You’re trying to fist-fuck me with this shit and are showing no remorse. Your merciless tactics will not go unpunished. I will qualify this war in the harshest of terms.

There is no moral component of this situation to me. You have invaded my sovereign womb and have poisoned me with your vindictive nature.

I like my lady parts, I like afterwork cocktails, I like my sex drive, I like not feeling as if I’m on a plummeting elevator (boxed in and sinking) all DAY LONG.

I want it back.

And I will take it.

You are thriving in a bubble of futility.

There will come a time when I will welcome you. And shield you and your home against any danger.

But now is not that time.

You’re a son of a bitch. You will be rolled up between my forefinger and thumb and crush.

Yours in haste,

N