Dear Lovekins: You're so awesomepants for taking care of me last week while I was puking up my guts. Honestly, how many stomachs can I possibly have for all of that to be produced? Regardless, I love you a whole bunch. However, I'm mad at you because when I "got you sick", all you got was a neckache. Boo. I mean, how do you do that? How do I spend four days in the fetal position clutching a bucket, when you get a neckache and are "a little chilly"?
Dear Christmas: I hate you and I love you. I hate you because: You're expensive. You're cold. You're messy. You come bearing fruitcake from everyone I have ever met. You are no longer politially correct. I love you because: You're Christmas.
Dear Grumpkins: You're a silly kid. I love that your personality is showing a lot more now. You're playing games and cracking jokes that only you get, apparently. Heaven forbid we interrupt you. Carry on playing by yourself in your crib. Mommy's gonna go have a nap.
Dear Judgemental Jerkholes: Yes, I'm married. No, I'm not sixteen. Yes, she's mine. Yes, I know who the father is and NO, I was not drunk during conception. Does that answer everything? I mean, really. I know I'm small, but so? I don't pass judgement on you just because your entire shopping cart is full of boxed wine and you smell like feet. We are all God's children. (Said with the utmost Sassy Pantsness.)
Dear Bloggy Friends: I've come to the realization recently that I'm loads funnier while I'm pregnant. That being said, no, I'm not going to run out and get pregnant again any time soon. Not on purpose, anyway. So, for now, you'll just have to put up with some occasional lackluster posts about The Grumpster and my dying social life. Cheers.
Dear Christmas: I hate you and I love you. I hate you because: You're expensive. You're cold. You're messy. You come bearing fruitcake from everyone I have ever met. You are no longer politially correct. I love you because: You're Christmas.
Dear Grumpkins: You're a silly kid. I love that your personality is showing a lot more now. You're playing games and cracking jokes that only you get, apparently. Heaven forbid we interrupt you. Carry on playing by yourself in your crib. Mommy's gonna go have a nap.
Dear Judgemental Jerkholes: Yes, I'm married. No, I'm not sixteen. Yes, she's mine. Yes, I know who the father is and NO, I was not drunk during conception. Does that answer everything? I mean, really. I know I'm small, but so? I don't pass judgement on you just because your entire shopping cart is full of boxed wine and you smell like feet. We are all God's children. (Said with the utmost Sassy Pantsness.)
Dear Bloggy Friends: I've come to the realization recently that I'm loads funnier while I'm pregnant. That being said, no, I'm not going to run out and get pregnant again any time soon. Not on purpose, anyway. So, for now, you'll just have to put up with some occasional lackluster posts about The Grumpster and my dying social life. Cheers.
Whatever, this made me laugh! Seriously, you crack me up.
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