Dear Biological Clock,

Hey, how have you been? I would assume you’ve been working overtime with all that damn ticking I keep hearing. You should take a break, after all, I know I could use one. I’ve heard you talking to me, clouding my judgement and what not. I’m sure you’d be pleased to know that I don’t get repulsed at all babies anymore. I bet somewhere that would be considered a win for your team. Ok fine.  Biological Clock: 1, Me: 0. In case you don’t read my blog, I’ve been having a hard time with life, and part of this is because of you. You make me feel like I need to figure this shit out, stat.  I thought I could beat science. I thought reproducing would be best left to girls with, you know, feelings. But I can still hear you, you little shit. Ticking at me….not in or around me, but AT me. And while the logical part of my brain still remains the winner of this internal fight, no matter how many times I hit snooze, I can still hear you. I’m sure somewhere inside of me your little minions, my ovaries, are currently having a chat with each other. I picture them like the creepy Siamese cats from Lady and the Tramp. Swaying around my insides and singing, “We are ovaries, if you please. We are ovaries, we help make babies.”  I don’t know whats creepier, picturing my ovaries singing inside of me, or the idea that they are potentially conspiring against me.

But you see Clockie, (can I call you Clockie?), I’m not really ready for babies and quite frankly I’m not convinced at my abilities to be a totally bitchin’ mom. A bitchy mom, maybe. But not bitchin’. I just think that until I know what I want out of this whole crazy thing called life, you should tone it down for a while. I get it, I’m 27, historically that is time to start shooting out babies from my nether region but I’m just not there yet. So if you could stop with the incessant ticking, my uterus and I would really appreciate it. So while my new lady instincts are telling me to find something soft to swaddle immediately, the rest of me is asking you kindly back the fuck off.

Hearts,
Jackie

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