We’re Still On Pessimism & House-Brick Lamping

Peesticks are fucking with me, people. Fucking with me. They have made my brain their bitch. Or something.

My internet CheapieCheapieNiceNice £2.99 for 25 tests are – quel surprise – turning out hellish unreliable. So far today, the reagent oracle has pronounced that 1) I have never encountered hCG in my life, 2) I am about 12 weeks gone, and 3) I am slightly more pregnant than yesterday.  Cue, in order: tears, mirth, and lip-chewing. The sticks are still averaging Barely There. The uterus is quiet, with none of the cramping that usually accompanies this stage.

But…  you’re on aspirin this time! pipes up Optimism.

Pessimism promptly slams Optimism’s head violently in a door  – the Eddie to Optimism’s Richie, if you like – and stands over the twitching corpse.

All in all, not having the best few days.

Although the leg-waggling did cheer me up:

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