"You know, when I was pregnant, I got these whopping hemorrhoids. It felt like a grape was hanging out of my rectum for like, six months."
"Well, mine were worse. And when I gave birth, I tore. Like rrrrriiiiiiiippppp. It actually made a noise. And then they had to sew my bum and all my lower innards back inside."
"Ha! You think that's bad? I split in half. Literally. And they had to staple me. Four hundred and seventy seven steel clamps to put Humpty back together again."
A moment of silence to consider the last visual.
"Well, after I had baby Horace, he would NOT breast feed. My knockers were MAMMOTH! SOOOOO ENGORGED!"
"That's nothing. I got a breast infection that lasted eighteen years! Just try latching a suckling babe to a bleeding boob! THAT'S RIGHT~I SAID BLEEDING! Excruciating."
"Whatever. Get this. Both sides were engorged, then infected and THEN, my son actually bit my nipple in two. Mmm hmmm. And eventually, one day, Plop. They just up and fell off."
Another moment of silence and reverie.
We were shameless, folks. Scarlet letter outrageous. And I can't help but feel somehow responsible for the PYT backing~shrieking and screaming~out of the room...and the marriage...but it couldn't be helped. She had to know. And it was our duty (hand wringing pleasure) to inform her. And that's one case where the messenger probably should be shot.
Why do we do it? Nobody knows for sure. I think it's kind of like a sneeze~can't be restrained, is a natural urge and it just feels so FANTASTIC mid-spew. But the innocents face is left covered in flying mucus and snot, and there's no undoing the memory of being soiled with another person's boogs~or hemorrhoid/lactation narratives.
Anyway, I'm very disappointed in us~but mostly you. And that's because I don't think you've learned your lesson, cuz I can tell by your watery eyes that you're about to erupt once again with boogery tales and spew them all over another prenatal lassie.
Poor, poor lassie.
Don't worry~I'll hold her down.