This Will Never Happen To ME Again

This is what happened to me. A lot. This is how I became the founder of the Society for Immoral Repeat Breeders. In fact, one of them is screaming in my ear right now. One won't stay in bed even under threat of death, or even worse. One is sound asleep, but before that felt every single thing that happened second to second was tragic, mean, unfair, dramatically horrible, and worthy of constant nonstop tears and whining. One is smarter than me and lives five hundred miles away from this crap most of the year. And, as much as I love them, lets face it folks...I'm an old bitch. Old. The date on my egg carton is like, salmonella-scary past due. So, for the good of society, I am getting spayed. I tried to convince my boyfriend to get neutered, but he felt that this would somehow limit his options and pecking order at the Bar of the King Of Elks. I saw this picture, and realized that my problem stemmed from the fact that I don't usually want to be on the receiving end of oral sex. If I had just let the man eat....who knows? It could have been breakfast instead of diapers, snot, homework, delinquency and college. All in all, though, it makes me sad that I will never get to have another baby. There is just something about the smell of Baby Magic and amniotic fluid for those first few days.....and then, just every little thing they do being so cute. Until it involves some sort of bodily fluid being propelled out of an unlikely orifice at some ungodly hour. Ahhh, babies. A hysterectomy is the only answer. I worry if one of those eggs got 'spooned' it just may be too old to grow right. I feel this is the best thing for all those leftover eggs. I mean, I am an artist, and Easter is just around the corner....I could paint them and hide them around the neighborhood and let my other children try to find them, kind of like some white trash version of Angelina Jolie. "Go find yer little unfortunate brothers and sisters guys!" This just seems like too much work, though. So, spayed it is. Luckily I get to go to the hospital in like a real city, not our local band-aid station. I truthfully would rather go to the vet than there. This town used to have more bars than people, and more teeth than crime. And the teeth were sparse. The hospital was good then, but I like to be knocked out for these things, and not with vodka and a shot of drano. And, although Raylene can still quilt stitch pretty well through those violent meth tremors, I'd still prefer a real surgeon. Actually, being from this town, most of the spoons we see are not bent in this cute and peculiar way. They're more burned, and crispy. And eggs never sit long enough for four spoons to get that close.