Pica

When I first started writing this blog I was aware that people I used to date and/or would some day like to date were reading, and I was somewhat conscious of how I presented myself. I was careful not to talk about hemorrhoids or cellulite, and I kept my more bizarre pregnancy symptoms to myself. However, after writing about my nursing bra, my melonbelly and the breathe-right strip I wear to bed every night, I think I’ve pretty much ruined any chances of ever getting lucky with any of my readers, so I may as well let it all hang out. Think of me what you will.

I seem to be developing a weird, but hopefully harmless, form of pica. I don’t actually want to eat soil, but I crave the smell of it and the feel of it in my hands. I have fantasies about rolling around in the mud and feeling its squishy grittiness between my toes, and the idea of working with pottery clay is enough to make me feel faint with desire. (I know, I should probably just check myself into the nearest hippie-dippie pottery class and get it out of my system, but you know, with all my spare time...)

Also, I don’t want to eat white-out, but I used some the other day to fix an address on an envelope and it smelled AMAZING. Last night I was watching Extreme Home Makeover and they were pouring cement and I got this insane longing to run my hands through the wet cement and rub it all over my body. I’ve had my blood levels checked and everything is fine, and I seriously have no desire to eat this stuff, but wouldn’t rubber cement smell really good right now?

When I first found myself pregnant and single I imagined that I would blow up like a balloon and nobody would want me and I'd have to go nine months without sex and it would be a terrible hardship. But now that I'm older, wiser, and pregnanter, I know better. I don't want sex, I want cement.