It’s me, your ill-fated UT. The day has finally approached when I join hands in the sweet hereafter with my sisters-in-arms, your wisdom teeth. Guess they weren’t so wise after all or they’d still be in your mouth. And maybe you should’ve kept them, your decision-making skills could use some help.
I hope you’ll miss me, you rotten wench. I hope you get fat, lose all interest in sex and finally get that beard you’ve been plucking out one hair at a time. I’ve told the ovaries to play dead so your surgeon will have to take them out, too….take that! I’m going to be laughing all the way to the pathologist and when I’m lying in the red plastic bucket you’ve doomed me to languish in until I’m incinerated, I’ll be singing this song:
What we had was real, not just dime store True Romance magazine pulp fiction love. Hell, bitch, we made babies together and now you want to kick me to the curb just because I may be the death of you if I stay? Whatever happened to “Till Death Us Do Part?” I’ve been with you since the beginning, for richer and for poorer, but I guess the “through sickness and through health” was the deal breaker, eh?
Fine. I’m leaving. Enjoy the rest of your life with a wombless cavity. Don’t worry about me. It was getting pretty old bleeding three weeks out of four and I’m tired. Sorry for being a snarky B earlier. I really will miss being a giant lumpy mess in your body, soul sister. I ain’t going to the East side but I think this song says it best for all the obsolete uteri of the world:
Love (and kinda hate),