Anne-Davnes Elser

Dear Placenta,

I am sorry for cursing you out the other day. I know you're still able to do your job, transferring food and oxygen to Bimp, even though you're in the WRONG place. Was that a left-handed compliment? Sorry.

Dear Cervix,

Thank you for doing your job perfectly. For staying firm and tightly closed, like any good girl should. I hope I have not shamed you into performing well.

Dear Visitors,

I hope my temper tantrum did not hurt your feelings. I am very grateful for your visits. Just be aware that I am new at this whole helpless patient thing and am not used to being in bed 24 hours a day.

Dear Bimp,

Thank you for performing PERFECTLY during your test strips. You're a trooper. Thanks for not caring what's going on with my body. For moving around as much as you do, putting on a lively show for the docs and nurses. For making ME look good.



Dear loopy high-strung night nurses,

Fuck you. And fuck your power trips. Fuck your own sick need to "serve (control)" your patients, and your own neediness, which you just end up transferring to your patients via horror stories and and detailed descriptions of how needles work.

Dear Ovaries,

I am putting you two on the pill RIGHT after Bimpie is out. THANK you for giving me Bimp but oh my god, I don't think I can do all this again.

Dear nurses who are calm and easy-going and emotionally independent/mature,

God bless you. Have you been watching the Dog Whisperer? Cause I swear you and Ceasar have the same philosophy. Thank you for listening and really keying in on what I need to hear and what I do NOT need to hear.

Dear Blog readers,

Thank YOU for not freaking out on my freaking my shit way out about my freaking out about all this freaking my shit so far out there.

Dear Students,

Thank you for being OK with my not answering all your e-mails. I just don't have the energy to think about work/design/art or anyone BUT myself. I'm as selfish now as I've ever been - I am just too scared to look beyond my own navel right now.

Dear Eggshells,

Can you just move out of the way already? I'm sick of trying to walk on or around you.

Dear food service cafeteria people,

Good god, please stop asking me what I want for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I really don't care anymore. And I'm sorry, but as nice as you guys are, the mere sight of you makes me nauseous. And whatthefuckisthis? A snack? Are you serious? Soft bread on a plastic plate wrapped in saran? You guys get texture thing all wrong. In fact, you have no concept of texture. Not everything has to be mushy and vegetables don't like it when you cook the dickens out of them - unless they're mashed potatoes, which WANT to be mashed. It's bad enough not being able to use my abdominal muscles, but thanks to you and your shenannigans, my jaw muscles are beginning to atrophy, too.

Dear Bladder,

I know it's a lot to ask, but just because I still have bathroom privileges does NOT mean I want them every 30 minutes. And when you DO decide to empty, can you do a little more than a teaspoon? Come ON now, put on a good show, will 'ya?

Dear Docs,

Thank you for staying way far away from my vagina. See top illustration and visit this fantastic blog entry for another take on the pleasure of all things fertility and a very witty placenta previa primer.

Dear Clitoris,

Sorry for the lack of attention. I miss you. So does Doug. Porn doesn't help any longer now, does it? What's the fun in watching some naughty girl get some if we can't have any?

And I think that's about it for now. I got to see Bjorn yesterday and will write a more upliftting and less toxic post about that later.