. . . or anyone I know that I know of.
It's weird how you can be going along, doing your own thing in your head and then someone comes along and usurps it.
It's all good.
Even if "evil" is evoked. I shudder that MSN "news" is all involved.
My uterus is my own.
Long live the Hystera.
(that, at least, is mine.)
It's not that. . .
It's just that, what do you do with this kind of information about women at the Planned Parenthood:
biker chick, struck up converstation, third (at least) abortion, tried all the various methods. . .she almost skipped over to the counselor's office when her name was called. . .two people, a couple, with a friend there too in the waiting room, and that one, she, was chattering away loudly on her cellphone, despite the signs in every eye-shot stating "please be courteous; no cell phones," and eating chips loudly from a crinkling bag, despite the fact that every other woman there for her surgery hadn't been able to eat since the long night before, a kind of minute Ramadan or Yom Kippur or Lenten Friday amid the yowling devil. And she looked for the journal she had donated to the communal experience there on the coffee table that never had anyone's coffee, just magazines - only to be told by the receptionist, that, yeah, someone must have stolen it, along with all the others that had been written in.
People keep stealing the stories, and people keep breaking the rules, and people keep having to do this nonetheless.