whatEVER

I was in bed by 5pm yesterday. I didn't intend to fall asleep and stay that way, I just did. My initial plans were to make a dent in the seemingly insurmountable pile of clothes residing in baskets stacked on top of baskets, on top of my bed. My pillows whispered to me in a low, dusky drawl... hey baby, we need fluffed. And they did. I decided to do one. I fluffed it, and fluffed it well. I wanted to do them all. So there I am, fluffing my ass off, when the crisp clean sheets perked up that they needed some smoothing. Smoothing, and fluffing, and writhing about made me want to just snuggle in and bask in the glow of a freshly made bed. Yes, I do things backwards. But I wasn't the last one out, so I very well couldn't make the bed with my old man still IN it, right? What's a little bed-making behind his back? Alas, I fell asleep, and the laundry still sits on the floor next to that naughty, naughty bed.
Somewhere around 9pm the hubster asked me if I really wanted to sleep, undisturbed, all night. I believe his words were "I thought you were going to put the clothes away". I told him I wasn't feeling well. And, in fact, I wasn't at that point. Earlier in the day I had suffered an unusually painful bout of unpassable gas. It's not that I couldn't fart at work if I had really wanted to, it just that this gas wasn't interested in escaping. During one attempt to sit on a chair, a sharp pang of surprisingly intense, knock-the-breath-out-of-you pain hit me like a bolt of lightning throwing meat cleavers. I spent the remainder of the afternoon feeling somewhat constipated, though I absolutely know that was NOT the case, and wishing I could just cut the cheese and go home. Upon my arrival home, the feelings had passed - and possibly the gas as well, though I do not recall an event that mighty - and as such I promised the spouse I'd do some chores. heh. Well.
I rolled over, and the damn meat cleaver twisted in my gut as I wrenched myself into a pretzel shape. No lightning this time, just sharp metal slicing through my pelvis. WTF? I felt such an immense pressure, but not really an 'urge' to go visit the porcelain goddess, so much as a 'might as well try it' concession. Nada. I'm telling you, I am not constipated, I know, I know, I know. Then it hit me. I have a tumor in my colon. I'll bet that's what it is. Or an ovary has just festered up and torsed (is that the proper usage of torsion? Will torse, has torsed?) Maybe I 'do' have endometriosis, and it has grown to the point it has covered every pelvic organ I own and is choking the life right out of them. Hmmm.
Throughout today the feeling has waned just a wee little bit, and, as days do, things got in the way of my self-diagnosing and obsessing. Until I noticed a slight hint of pink on the paper. Am I spotting? Is it my period? After a mere 72 days? Wha?
And... that was the end of that. I haven't spotted one teensy bit since. I even put on a pad for the occasion. All dressed up, and no place to go. My poor little girl, the wallflower. (I always thought she was a little dorky, but I try to improve her self esteem).
Yeah so anyway. Sigh. Woe is me.
In other fantabulous news, I .. uh... well. I got nothin.