My ovaries have been sabotaging my otherwise healthy sense of self-preservation since the first alpha-male caught their attention. Seems they're obsessed with creating a SuperBaby.
They've caused me to go for all kinds of unworthies, based solely on my womb’s draw towards these guys' perceived genetic superiority.
This desire to create a being capable of taking over the world in its free time has gone largely unnoticed by me. I realize, in retrospect, that my conscious self has just been more or less a vessel for very horny ovaries.
I should give them a talking to. I’ve dated way too many hot motherfuckers who couldn’t tie their own shoelaces. After teaching them such helpful tips as, ‘pretend this is a rabbit ear, now make the other one,’ they’ve left me, spermless and back at square one. Without a superbaby.
Bad ovaries. Bad, bad ovaries.
But, like petulant children, my ovaries block my lecturing out. They may even already be aware that I don’t plan on letting them take a nine month break anytime soon, if ever. But I can’t know for sure what they think. We’re not speaking these days, after my last bad-boy encounter.
I bet you can guess the ending to that fling. Here’s a clue. Nothing good comes of volatile unreliability. No matter how many hot times you call each other bitch and exchange smacks.
But goddamn did it keep me, my suitcase labeled ‘Past’ and those naughty ovaries coming back for more, more, more.