Babies. You can’t live with them; you can’t live without them. Sure, that’s what women say about men and men say about women. But I’m talking about babies. Gaga-goo-goo, gurgling, spitting up, defecating-five-times-a-day, babies.
The thing is I recently turned 33 years old. My golden, wrinkle free skin and exuberant spirit may paint me as a 23-year-old, but my womanly parts tell a different story. Every month, my fallopian tubes and ovaries scream at me to give them the opportunity to fulfill their duty. “Let us do what we do, woman!” My right ovary once hollered. And my eggs? They sob every time they flow through my uterus and fail to connect with their principes (sperm) on their journey. “Damn you, Sujeiry! You lost another one!” That was my left ovary last month. Pissed that another egg was wasted, released through my pepa™ to never give life to a baby…ever.
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