I’m jealous. I never looked as wonderfully pregnant as jezebelthegreat when my inside lady-fannypack was full of new human. I didn’t really look pregnant at all. More like an otherwise proportionate chick who’d been holding in like ten thousand farts for two years straight, hopefully for a contest or something. Don’t clap yet. Clothes didn’t fit right, nobody could tell I wasn’t “just fatter”, and yet I still felt pregnant. Morning (eg. all day) sickness, achy, emotional, penis-hungry and fatter-looking.
Scientific Part: Standing at just under six footlong sandwiches tall ensures that a woman is able to continue pillaging monasteries and burning hovels on nearby islands, despite that her womb lays heavy with the seed of a lucky dude who was allowed to get his white stuff all up in her pink thing. My sons were born about a month early, probably because they were so stoked to be
near my vagina, gross my sons, thereby saving me from the infamous ninth month fuckingkillmealready bellysplosion.
Powerful, Inspirational Part: I don’t mean to brag unless I’m bragging, which I always am, but at least four goats were sacrificed in celebration of my ability to look a bit chubby for several months—when ALL OF A SUDDEN!, a blond-haired blue-eyed male infant appeared betwixt my powerful, inspiring, powerfully inspirational get-away sticks. Tell your friends.