Brace yourself, Interwebz. I have to talk about my boobs again.
For those of you desperately in need of a vagina fix (Heh. That was way more fun to type than I even imagined.), may I suggest checking out this link. (So incredibly not safe for work but still amusing.) Or this one. (Well I think it’s safe for work anyway.) I actually bought one of those for my little brother once. And some crayons. The glittery kind. To simulate moisture. Obviously.
It seems sort of a shame to waste so many vaginal vaginal links on a post not about vaginas. Oh what the hell. You only live once. Or post once…a week…at least lately.
Now where was I? Ah yes, the boobs. And their juice. And all the quirky hijinks that ensue.
You see, I slept for eight solid hours last night. Eight. Solid. Consecutive. Blissful. Hours. And there was only one downside.
Now I’ve been engorged before. We’ve covered this. But a while back the pediatrician implied Paul wasn’t gaining enough weight and maybe I wasn’t making enough milk. So I did what any self-respecting, Type A, first-time mom would do. I pumped these bad boys until they could be pumped no more. I have so much milk in the chest freezer I’ve contemplated selling it on the black market to creepy fetish dudes to fund self-publishing my book.
In fact, it’s sort of become a bit of a game for me. The engorgement, not the pumping. I can’t imagine a pumping game. Unless Righty and Lefty race to see who can fill a bottle fastest or something. That sounds tragically boring though. Even if I named my boobs Catniss and Peeta and used a post-apocalyptic pump.
Maybe I’m still a little behind on sleep.
So the engorgement game involves defying gravity. Like I’ll fall asleep on my back and then when I wake up my boobs have hardened into freakish mounds that point at each of my eyes. Or if I fall asleep on my left side, my boobs look like they’re both trying to retrieve something from my left pants pocket. Sometimes I sleep in a push-up bra so I can see what I’d look like with a boob job.
It’s the little things, people. Or in this case, the suddenly larger than life and rock hard things.
But last night was a record. Eight hours…I guess it was ten actually…without releasing any boob juice pressure whatsoever was a bit extreme. Trying to get poor Paul to latch onto Lefty was harder than docking a shuttle at the space station.
Paul: Star date fourteen-niner-trifecta. Mission Control, are we cleared for Operation Latch?
Lefty: We’re a go for Latch, Bogey…er Baby. Wait. I forgot the code names again. Can we start over?
Paul: Whatever dude. GIMMETHEBOOB. You ready or what?
Lefty: There seems to be some sort of malfunction with the nipple…er docking arm…dude whatever we’re calling this thing IT WON’T BEND.
Paul: What do you mean? That’s sort of crucial to the operation. That’s how this works. I lay here screaming and flailing and She bends you around until you’re in my mouth and then I maul you until I calm down enough to get the goods.
Lefty: I dunno what to tell you, dude. I’ve got no flex. None. You’re just going to have to come to me.
Paul: Hi. I’m a baby. You seem to have WAY more confidence in my muscle control than you should. Exactly how to you expect me to climb up on you? Why are you all the way over there, anyway? And do you know it’s rude not to look at me while I’m talking to you?
Lefty: One of the cats slept against me last night. I don’t want to talk about it. You’ll have to talk to Her.
Paul: Ok, here we go. Easy. Easy now. A little to the right. Now up a little. Easy…MY EYE! SON OF A BITCH! Heh. Oh wait, I guess that’s like screaming,”ME!”
Lefty: Sorry, sorry dude. Um, back away and let’s try this again.
Paul: BEEP BEEP BEEP
Lefty: What are you doing?
Paul: Is that wrong? I though that’s what things did when they backed up. The neighbors car does that. Every single morning. Every. Single. One.
Lefty: I couldn’t tell you. We boobs don’t have a whole lot of experience with backing up. We’re more into side to side and up and down rather than forward and back.
Paul: STILL HUNGRY! I haven’t had boob juice in ages. GIMME. Or I’ll have to go to Defcon 17. And not even Sweet Baby Picard Jesus can save you then.
Lefty: Babies should really come with autopilot.
Paul: Boobs should really come with bendy straws. PS you’re leaking.
Lefty: So’s your diaper.
Paul: You hurt. I’m hungry. There’s a possible outcome here where we both win, you know.
Righty: What about me?
Lefty: Shut it, Righty. We’re still not on speaking terms. As or you, Hell Spawn, let’s try this again. And no biting. Or I’ll shoot your eye out.
I’m now convinced my left boob sounds just like the Russian cosmonaut from Armageddon.
And I definitely still need more sleep.