don’t mention the war.

So the House of Women is slowly becoming the House of Pain again, because one by one, we’re all getting yet another bout of child related sickness. Beatrix’s nose is pouring slime, and if she feels anything like I do, like a bus has rolled over her skull at least four times while stuck in neutral, and a metal poker has been scraped down the throat. On top of this, stupidly, the other night I somehow fell over my own fucking foot, so I’m currently hobbling around in my underwear with a bandage taped around my knee and I can’t really pick Bea up. This has, as you can imagine, soiled all possible plans for my birthday tomorrow night (the big two-two) so instead of drinking and having a grand old time, i’m going to demand my mother hire at least 4 different seasons of Sex and The City for me and build a castle fort in my bed. If you don’t hear from me by this time next week, I’ve either been hauled to the mental asylum or I’m halfway through my Sarah-Jessica Parker-athon. Peace out, kids.

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