I am trying to write complaint letter number, oh about 964. It is not going well.
For starters, the papers I have just looked through in order to make them realise I know what I am talking about and they can’t fob me off again are bleakly depressing. I keep seeing pregnancy rates, and live birth rates, and well, let’s just say they’re less than 50%. Significantly so. I don’t want to see that, it’s horrible. I don’t want that to be the truth. I don’t want that to be me. And so I burst into snivelly tears in the middle of the coffee shop I was in (using their internet) and had to come home. The wombats are looking at me very sympathetically, but they can’t really help, being stuffed toys and all.
Also I keep getting angry and screaming at things. Inanimate objects, as himself is still at work. So I can’t even have a cuddle and be told that he still loves me. Darn it.
I don’t seem to be able to say exactly what I want to say, in a measured and eloquent fashion, without descending into a swearing rant as my fingers run away from me, typing my thoughts without moderation from the inhibitions centre of my frontal cortex.
I want a baby. I don’t want this.
Anyone want to write it for me?