Month One, Day Seven

Vicious hangover. Blurry memory. Vague images of talking with vigour and passion about subjects I do not give a shit about.

There’s no way I’ll conceive this month. It will take years for my eggs to dry out after what I exposed them to last night. The one solitary ovum that is due for release next week will stagger drunkenly down my fallopian tubes, crashing into the walls, then passing out and disintegrating before it even has a chance.

My eggs are alcoholics.

I am not responsible enough to become a mother.