Cluck cluckedy cluck cluck

Hot women all around me having hot hottie little babies, making me more clucky than a hen on steroid-laced pellets.

Okay, okay, I can almost hear you, shouting through the depths of cyber-space: alright Jen, we get it, you’re CLUCKY! Now just get pregnant or go on the pill, but please….SHUT UP!!!!

Ah, my dear friends, if only it were that simple….well, yeah, you’re right, it probably is, but then that doesn’t make a very nice segue, does it?

On the plus-side:

– Frankie brought Charlotte and co over today and guess what? She actually does cry. Thud. That was me coming back down to earth.

– In viewing Angelina’s new mummy-rack, where others see hot boobies, I see only painful melons of leakage.

– I’m projecting my cluckiness onto Caleb, finding him super-edible of late. In fact, I just stumbled across a video from a few months ago, in which he is starting to talk. Check it out if you like – it’s not particularly funny, but damn it’s cute…

So yes, I’m dealing with this my cluckified hormones a little better right now, but can I please just put out an urgent call to hot women everywhere: for heaven’s sake STOP BREEDING!!!!!!

My ovaries are begging you.