happy fucking birthday, you infertile minx you

I wake up early, anticipating the ominous tolling of bells. Today, I am officially thirty-nine. Another year off my fertility, another year closer to defeat. As I gnaw on my fingers, I hear manic laughter puncturing the cold silence of early morning. I check, double check–the strained and tuneless sounds are coming from me.

I am tired and it is fertile week. Is this what middle aged sex is like? I’m sore from my daily wanderings, usually aimless but yesterday I used some birthday money to buy the new Levi’s 501 skinny jeans at Buckle. I am extremely happy with them, not too long on me and with a nice high rise, but I’d rather have a child. Perhaps I’ll have to learn to settle for little things. My head spins at the thought. The rest of the money is tucked away for my upcoming appointment, for which I pray my hypomanic charm will score me a script for letrazole with minimal testing. A foolhardy plan, perhaps, but my arsenal’s gone dry. 

I sigh, swallow my benzos. It should’ve been different and I’m brought to my knees by the sparkling Asian children I see eating French fries at the mall. It’s the Asian children that kill me and I think of Molly and how I never held her in my arms. It was never meant to be, my mother had said to me, and I remember how my tears flowed freely at the note of finality in her statement. She never wanted grandchildren. I am all alone.

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