The weekend is here and not a moment too soon. I have no way of telling whether this is all in my head, or a direct result of the Clomid, but I’m pretty much in a perpetual rage. I’ve taken to having friends read all my professional emails before I send them out, because I’m paranoid that my low-level fury will boil over into the writing and get me in trouble.
The only upside is that I’m just blaming everything on the Clomid. Tired? It’s not because I didn’t go to bed at a decent hour, it’s because of the Clomid. Cranky? It’s not just my personality, it’s the Clomid. Standing over the sink shoveling cookies into my mouth with a glazed, joyless, thousand-yard stare? Clomid.
I’m blaming typos on Clomid and attitude problems on Clomid and my total disinclination to exercise or leave the house on, you guessed it, Clomid. I like this so much, I might just make up an imaginary friend named “Clomid” and blame everything on him, like “Nobody” in the old “Family Circus” comics.
“Who put lipstick on the dog?”
Image via arc at Flickr