Hi. This is Bitch, Tamara’s uterus. Gentlemen… why are you still reading? You are not the addressee on this letter. Nosy.
Anyway, Tamara was telling me today that her dear readers begged for a guest blog from me. And I was all, jeez, woman, one thing at a time here. I’m kinda busy, if you hadn’t noticed. What with all the cramping and bleeding and what not. It’s, you know, my busiest time of the month, aside from ovulation. And Tamara kept yacking away about how I shouldn’t disappoint her readers and blah blah blah.
So here I am. And honestly, I don’t have a lot to say. There is a cycle of life down here, an ebb and flow. And aside from an occasional visit to the gyno not much out of the ordinary happens. And even then, it’s the cervix that gets all the action.
People try to tell Tamara that my neighbors to the north, “the sacred ovaries” should be kickin’ it into high gear about now and if Tamara doesn’t use me for baby makin’ they’ll shrivel up and die. But I’d like to go on record and say, if I never get stretched to baby-sized proportions, it will be too soon for me. I want to keep my nice shape and not have baby juice all icking up the place down here. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I serve at the pleasure of the President (that’s what the three of us down here call her, she watches West Wing, we all watch West Wing) and if she wants a damned baby stretching me out, fine. But if she doesn’t, SUPER fine. I don’t know what “the sacred ovaries” have to say about it, because, hello? they don’t talk. All they do is spit out an egg once in a while, and they alternate between months. Lazy fucking hags. (”But, but, Bitch?” you say, “You said that the three of you call Tamara the President. How can you do that, if they don’t talk.” My answer, they use telepathy, but only every other month. I don’t get a lot of convo from them. Happy?)
That’s all I have for now. I’m sure Tamara will pass on any more requests, and then force me to oblige.
Bitch - Tamara’s Uterus