Babies. They’re freakin’ everywhere. All over Facebook, in strollers at the supermarket, spreading a contagion of adorability everywhere I go.
Yes, I am finally clucky.
I used to think that cluckiness was something that would never happen to me, like falling in love with the Abominable Snowman or winding up in rehab with Amy Winehouse. But guess what? I was wrong.
Here I am; 33 years old, separated and with ovaries that are blowing kisses to the universe, like meaty little Marilyns. They’re saying, ‘Hello boys’, all breathy and flirtatious.
Anybody else out there wishing for a big, ol’ preggy belly instead of flat abs? Does anyone have a human baby I can borrow for, say, 75 years?