Fucking hell fire! I have had an interminably monstrous few days. Thank you, Womble, Remnant, Gum & Diege for wondering where I was. I woke up on Wednesday morning to no internet connection - ditto mobile phone. I rang the 3 network who informed me that 'work' was being done in my postcode area and that I would be without phone and internet for the next three days. I not-very-gently explained that, despite living out in the sticks, I did not expect to experience the level of inconvenience which might reasonably be expected if I lived in, say, the fucking Himalayas. So..facing three days of utter isolation I decided to make some work-related appointments in Manchester and hence Be Productive.
On the train to Manchester on Thursday morning I was sat in a carriage with a throng of drunken lunatics from Glasgow, one of whom recognised me from a SKYTV documentary I appeared in called Naked In Blackpool. Cue fifty minutes of jeering, cheering, probing, mock-masturbating and whistling. It was ghastly and hilarious in equal measure. By the time I alighted in Manchester I felt soiled. It gets worse. Walking along Deansgate I bumped into an old friend whose son I had sex with when I was thirty-seven. He was a month away from his seventeenth birthday and was still in braces (those cement train-track ones). Fucking disgusting, I know (when my friend found out she slapped me across the face and her husband shook my hand. She then slapped him across the face). When I bumped into her she said, 'still shagging sixteen year-old boys?' and looked at me with such contempt I felt physically crushed.
Then, yesterday morning, my CRB (Gum, this stands for Criminal Record Bureau) form finally arrived, which had been requested by the drug and alcohol addiction charity I am hoping to volunteer with. Upon reading it I was so starkly reminded of my horrible misdemeanours I started to cry: drink driving x 2; assault; drunken disorderly; theft; battery (52 days imprisonment suspended for 12 months); assaulting a police officer - the list was endless. It was as if, in the last forty-eight hours, I had been assaulted by the very worst excesses of my past; stuff which I have tried very hard to bury and atone for, but from which I will evidently never quite be unshackled. I despise the person I used to be: the ego-driven, narcissistic, self-indulgent, nymphomaniacal, devil-may-care twat who lived through her twenties and thirties without a care for anyone or the consequences of my actions. I must have carried such an air of entitlement it makes me feel nauseous just thinking about what I was like to be around.
I'm not usually prone to bouts of self-loathing but it's been a strange few days, particularly as I had no means of coming to you all with my wobbles. To top it all, DP has started smoking again. I had my suspicions during the week but he has flatly - and hotly - denied it. When he offered me a rather perfunctory peck on the lips last night after work I smelled smoke. After a 40 second grilling he admitted he is 'having the odd one'. Dear reader...I hit the fucking roof. I asked him why he thought he was so special that smoking cessation was simply too insurmountable a demand for him as a human being. Why, I asked, is it just impossible for him to give up? 'Because I don't want to', came the petulant reply. I said, 'well, I don't want to make your fucking tea every night when I would much rather be watching Emmerdale, but I fucking do it'. Then I said, 'tell you what...you carry on smoking your fucking selfish head off and I will find a man to fuck who doesn't have spasticated sperm with a 3% morphology. How does that suit you, dickhead?' He mumbled something about me doing what I like and skulked away to his bedroom and wasn't seen again until this morning.
So..last night, after the aforementioned brouhaha and in the pitch black darkness of the country lanes, I went in search of the nearest phone box to cry to my mum. Of course, she insisted I come to her house for the rest of the weekend and here I am....with internet access! Hurrah!! I am sorry for this long post and I know it's relatively silly stuff which shouldn't have impacted so greatly upon my confidence these last few days, but it has - and I have missed you all very much.
Still, that doesn't stop me from wanting to bang your heads together (those of you necking DHEA and other such 'egg improvement' nonsense). Naughty girls. And darling Gum, what the feck are you playing at getting so excited at 7DPO?? Can an embryo have even implanted and released such amounts of HCG that 'strange mouth tastes' could even be detected at that stage? Please calm down. Breathe. I am so very afraid for you if it's a BFN. I am not the voice of doom. I am the voice of reason although I am allowed to be excited for you
It's so nice to hear from Wylie, Womble etc and I do want to thank that lady who came on here to warn about DHEA (seeing as nobody else thanked her. Ingrates). Big shout out to those on the 2ww - I do not envy you. I'm on CD11 and it has been the longest fucking eleven days of my life (or so it has seemed). I am so bored of this TTC shit. I am bored of sex (I was twiddling my thumbs for something to do yesterday morning sans t'internet and briefly considered masturbating. I couldn't be arsed. I couldn't be arsed having an orgasm. What the absolute downright fuck?!)