"I might have had a few shots." - JoJoe 6D
Being pregnant has been a fucking rollercoaster of emotions. And sure, for the first few months she sort of tried to get a hold of herself and keep the hormonal outburst to a minimum, if only to keep Joe from running off and leaving her alone with his fetus. But that was then. And this is now. And after eight months of steadily growing tits, belly and ass, and having doctors all up in her business, and generally unpleasant shit like a bladder the size of a California raisin and gagging at the sight of spicy food? Well.
She doesn’t give two shits.
He can leave, for all she cares. (Not really). And he can take his fucking fetus with him. (Not really, either).
“Oh, well.” Her offended rise from her current position on her couch would’ve been much more convincing had she been able to actually rise and not sort of wiggle around like a beached manatee and then finally make it on to her feet with a far from dignified groan. “As long as it was just a few fucking shots, right?”
She’s not sure why she’s pissed off. Because he had fun without her. Because she’s not really much fun these days. Because she hasn’t had a single drink in eight motherfucking months. Because it’s his fault she’s growing a child the size of The Mountain (she’s been marathoning Game of Thrones while inhaling alfajores, and fuck you for judging her). Because she kind of feels like crying a little and being pissed off is better than that.
“Not like you were needed. I can keep the incubating going on my own.” She kind of needs him, but it’s whatever. If he wants to go out and have shots instead of massaging her feet or just hanging out, that’s totally fine. She don’t need no man. “Bring the alfajores when you come to bed.” She does need those, even as she turns around to start walking towards their room. “‘night.”
