The Dangerous Twist

Everytime I try to talk about the barren wasteland that is my uterus, I feel like crying. But if I don't talk about it at all, it's ok. Typing it is ok, too. Somehow, it feels more like somebody else's problem.

Emmanuel says he doesn't care, that we can just adopt, that it's just temporary, the doctor said so. I hope so.

I've never really given it much thought, but I really did want to have a child of my own. The time, the pain, the frustration a couple goes through to have a child, it seemed so magical. If Emmanuel and I went through that it would bind us forever. We would have a child together.

It's so funny how we say words without realizing their power. Repeat it yourself again, slowly. Savor and appreciate, realize all the implications of that singular sentence.

We would have a child together.

I won't ever get to know what that's like.

I guess typing it is not okay, either.

In other news, I am writing my essay for Study Abroad and am having a time of it. It's only supposed to be a page long, so I am scrabbling for terse words, culling for brevity.

Also I am looking at clothes and shoes and plugs. I haven't bought anything at all! Just food, and it's been 20 dollars a frickin' day for the past few days. My friends are expensive. Mes amis sont tres cher.

Tomorrow I should like to go to a museum, perhaps, or to the Huntington Library. I'd like to have a nice day, doing something nice, eating somewhere nice. I feel well enough to go running tonight. I shall do so.

Gone are the days in which I vacillated for hours on end. I realized that instead of lying about for half an hour dreaming of being Chun Li, I could actually train to be Chun Li.

You all really don't know how much I'd like to be Chun Li, with her fecund thighs.

Fecundity is not a word that shall describe me, anymore. Lalalala.