So, I’ve been snatched. I’ve been replaced by a slimy, bitter, fire-breathing, unsympathetic twat. At least I’m able to step back and realize, with humor even, how stupid it is to dislike these people for just talking. Does that count as evolution? At least there’s humor now, right?

Shit just happens, it’s not the universe singling me out, and I really think God has bigger things to worry about besides whether or not I’m suffering enough. I don’t know the actual percentage, but surely most of the rest of the population is able to talk about future plans without just knowing that the moment they’re spoken aloud they’ll be torpedoed. Someone told me once that was an awfully Irish trait – not saying things out loud for fear of divine (or otherwise) retribution. I think it was our marriage counselor. I don’t quite get why that’s an Irish thing, unless he also means Catholic. Huge quantities of guilt maybe? Maybe I just overestimate my lightning-rod potential, though it sure doesn’t seem like it lately……

The object of my unyielding bitterness is, yet again, that poor woman in my office who shares my due date (it’s mine, I tell you). At least she doesn’t bring these things up, but there’s another woman in my office (nobody likes her – that one’s not just me) who just. can’t. stop. talking. About her plans, how her existing daughter will adjust, how her round ligaments are doing because, you know, she doesn’t think hers will ever be the same after she had her kid, etc. etc. yadayadayadayada.

They’re talking about getting tattoos of their kids names. I don’t have anything against tattoos, I’d probably have gotten at least a couple if I were a more decisive and creative person. The pregnant co-worker talks about getting her kids names and zodiac signs as a tattoo. Not a thought in the world that anything could possibly go wrong, that everything won’t be just perfect when her due date arrives. That kind of faith (or whatever the hell else it is) just boggles me. I don’t think I’ll ever have it again.

I’m even taking some comfort and let’s face it – glee – (might as well get all the poison out, right?) in the fact that she’s very uncomfortable. The baby’s very active, kicking pretty much everything (hard) and she can’t walk anywhere very fast because of the ligament pain.

Petty, thy name is me. And guess what else? I’m not even feeling very guilty about it. I’ll get past it, I’m not by nature an evil person (at least I don’t think I am) and I don’t wish her any harm (yet). I know it’s just because of the place I’m in right now.

But I’m not going to say any of this out loud, just in case….

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