I hate being pregnant

Yep, I hate it! I am so over this. What was I thinking? I don't want to bear children. I've NEVER wanted to; even as a little girl, I never daydreamed of having a baby. I have often thought I might like to acquire a child--adopt, I guess--but I have always known I don't want to be pregnant.

I've always thought it's just basically voluntary self-mutilation. And you know what? I was right. This sucks. I am what, like, 8 weeks pregnant and already my gut is swelling out of control--I can't get into my pants. I have two sets of clothes that fit, and I teach three days a week. Tonight, I'm heading out to the stores to try to raise that to three sets of clothes that fit.

Elastic is the most painful thing ever for me right now. Even soft, barely-squeezing elastic. Even underwear elastic. This is terrible.

So what possessed me to do this to myself, when my brain knew better? I'll tell you what. The Biological Clock. It started ticking and I was just like Ally McBeal, seeing that damn baby dancing at every turn. Funny thing is, once you give in to the Biological Clock and get preggers, the clock shuts off. So now, I'm the same girl I used to be, but with this parasite inside of me. And I am not a gracious host.

I guess I should say, though, that my face hasn't broken out. That's great, cause most women do break out. But in exchange for my face not breaking out, I have developed a sort of midnight trichotillomania, where I wake up and can't go back to sleep until I have pulled out a bit of hair and scratched bloody holes in my scalp. Yes, I know it's madness, but I need my sleep, so scratch, scratch, scratch.