And so we meet again, blogosphere. Have you missed me?
I'll not go into the story of my previous incarnation, the reasons I left or the catalyst which brought me back because, well, it bores me. Suffice it to say that I'm back now and that you're all extraordinarily chuffed to hear the news.
Primarily because, as far as I can tell, there's no one out there advocating those of us who chose Friday nights, passport stamps and footwear over nappies, breast pumps and stretch marks. Those of us who would rather our breasts be sexual organs than food sources, and those of us who rather like the sound of our own name, and feel no need to sully it with "Mommy" monikers and cooing kids.
Don't misunderstand - I hold no ill will towards the breeders of society. I understand the need to ensure the continuation of the human race, and my contribution to the gene pool would doubtless raise the bar significantly. I'm sure motherhood is full of...rewards ((cough)). It's just that after years of pitying looks and quiet tuts, of knowing glances and sighs of worldly understanding, society's insistence that women MUST become mothers or lose all worth has begun to make my skin crawl and my lunch threaten a return.
And so I rail against said tuts and sighs by doing all the things that those chained to after school programmes and diaper genies can only dream of. Barren by choice and bitchy by nature, I indulge because I can. And because it really p*sses off the uptight and self righteous.
I promise neither good manners, nor a sensitive approach, but it should at least be entertaining.
Oh, and nappy-less.
Though I did date a guy once who was into nappies. But that's a story for another post...
I'll not go into the story of my previous incarnation, the reasons I left or the catalyst which brought me back because, well, it bores me. Suffice it to say that I'm back now and that you're all extraordinarily chuffed to hear the news.
Primarily because, as far as I can tell, there's no one out there advocating those of us who chose Friday nights, passport stamps and footwear over nappies, breast pumps and stretch marks. Those of us who would rather our breasts be sexual organs than food sources, and those of us who rather like the sound of our own name, and feel no need to sully it with "Mommy" monikers and cooing kids.
Don't misunderstand - I hold no ill will towards the breeders of society. I understand the need to ensure the continuation of the human race, and my contribution to the gene pool would doubtless raise the bar significantly. I'm sure motherhood is full of...rewards ((cough)). It's just that after years of pitying looks and quiet tuts, of knowing glances and sighs of worldly understanding, society's insistence that women MUST become mothers or lose all worth has begun to make my skin crawl and my lunch threaten a return.
And so I rail against said tuts and sighs by doing all the things that those chained to after school programmes and diaper genies can only dream of. Barren by choice and bitchy by nature, I indulge because I can. And because it really p*sses off the uptight and self righteous.
I promise neither good manners, nor a sensitive approach, but it should at least be entertaining.
Oh, and nappy-less.
Though I did date a guy once who was into nappies. But that's a story for another post...
0 of your inappropriate thoughts.:
Post a Comment