My ovaries hurt. Until now, rarely I have considered the fact that I have ovaries, let alone that they could become autonomous regions of discomfort. Seems they can. It’s as if they’ve voted for secession but are too busy squabbling over the colour of their new flag to actually be anything more than a nuisance.
That’s what a healthy harvest will get you, it seems. This morning’s dual procedures (needle extraction to the nethers for him, targeted removal for me) appear to have turned up trumps. I produced a veritable carton of eggs: Either eight or nine, I can’t quite remember through the sedative fog. And we got some swimmers.
Thus, as I type the boys are getting to know the girls somewhere in a murky bar called The Lab. We’re hoping they hit it off just fine!
(Oh, and that car I accidentally hit the other day? Turns out the other driver reported it to the police as a hit and run. I have to go visit the police tomorrow. Maybe it wasn’t just our wing mirror and our innards that copped some damage these last couple of days. Shall keep you posted on that too. Sigh.)