Cuckoo for Clomid

The great thing about having a blog which nobody reads is that there's no pressure to post on a regular basis. The bad thing is, without this pressure, I'll never post at all, or at least infrequently enough to be called "hardly ever."

At least I have a good excuse. For the past three months, on cycle days 5-9, I've been a completely deranged maniac. Oh, I cover it up pretty well, in general. But pity the poor fool who tailgates me on the highway when I'm doing a perfectly reasonable 70 miles per hour. Last week I shook my fist and offered a good cock-punching to the asshole behind me, who wisely backed off.

But that's Clomid for you. Whatever I'm feeling at any given time, the drug amplifies it into a grotesque parody of an emotion. The first month I was angry at the world and all the dumbasses who live in it. The second month, I loved all the darling miracles of creation who inhabit this mystical sphere of life. Plus, I was hornier than I've been since puberty. I felt like everything was finally lining up. Until my period started. This month, I'm world-weary and cynical in a way that surprises even me. There's no God, no benevolent Universe and Divine Order. Thigs aren't Meant To Be, or Learning Experiences, or Life Lessons. Life is just a bunch of stuff that happens, and most people are delusional idiots for believing otherwise.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Maybe I'll have to eat my words later this month, when I get a positive pregnancy test. Maybe I'll start to believe in things again, other than just the inevitability of death for us all. Maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt. I guess stranger things have happened.