*Duck Dynasty has made me the woman I am today.*

“I don’t want to alarm you but…”

“I have E-coli poisoning.”

The doctor had not worn gloves. Hey hepatitis B, how you doing?

“Your wrist is broken…”

“Ah yes, so has the cracked skin surrounding your scars that just touched my raw body. Thanks.” Why do men never listen? Stop, you’re going too fast. I don’t like heroin so don’t give me any. I don’t want to meet your family if they’re not entirely Caucasian.

“Ms… sorry, what’s your surname? It’s not recorded on our system.”

“My surname?”

“Yes, please.”


“No, you’re surname.”

“It’s fucking Sondra.”

“Excuse me?”

“Imagine SEAL.”

“The singer?”

“No, the marine mammal.”

“Are you trying to be clever?” What a condescending gremlin. Was he attacking me?

“I feel very attacked right now.” Cornering a rat? Also, what was the ending to The Mousetrap? No one has told me. I need to know. Anyway, the doctor examined me. Identified my double-jointed hips and persisted in telling me how thin I was. Sorry Meghan Trainor. I originally forgot to tell him about my constant projectile vomiting so when he had finished my breast augmentation, I nudged him with the most subtle smile. His reaction was priceless.

“Do you have a medical card?”


“Do you have a medical card?”

“ROFL.” Was I giving him mixed signals? My back hurt but did his pride? His career was over.

“Can you pay?”

“No. I won’t contribute to an industry that objectifies the vulnerable. Thank you for your time.” I kept my composure and for that, no one can oppose me. He kept his pants on and for that, I informed a trainee nurse that he had given me an examination of the vaginal kind without a glove. It’s half true. He didn’t use a glove. He didn’t touch my vagina. I hope he wasn’t fired. My malicious lie had hidden the truth. Why was I projectile vomiting? Menopause? Cancer? Chris Pratt? For all I knew, my body was inhabited by a parasite who was willing to suck the life out of my 10 inch waist. Hehe, if only. Actually… I need a moment. A baby was born in Bethlehem? Sweet Child of mine? I’m keeping my baby? Juno? ZOEY 10 FUCKING 1?


My mother had been waiting outside the hospital for approximately 6 hours and was out of cigarettes. She was also out of time. Ava’s mother didn’t have a chance. She sat by the window opposite the nearest ambulance. She had made an acquaintance out of a woman with alopecia. I whipped my hair back and forth until it was gone. Enya was and will forever be underrated.

“Mummy!” Her head swung and was well hung.

“Yes?” FLACID.

“We need to talk.”

“Go ahead.”

“No. I mean alone…”

“Don’t mind Hannah.”

“Hi, I’m Hannah…”

“Hi, fuck off and buy a front lace wig. Thank you so much.” She was gracious and male. I had misevaluated the whole situation. His name was Henry. Fucking hypotheticals. I’m Roseanne via Roseanne finale shocker. Writing is my passion. I hope whoever is reading this, understands that I can’t communicate verbally without vomit and anxiety.. oh yes, my pregnancy.

“Bye Henry.”

“Bye Sondra. Give the kids my best.”

“I will of course. God bless.” My mother was unimpressed. She glared at me with one eye. The other was cross-eyed. Like severely. I’ll show a picture later.

“That was rude.”

“You know I have behavioural problems.”


“Just hear me out…”

“What’s wrong?”

“It involves my stomach.”



“What did the doctor say?”

“I’m pregnant.” I ripped the bandage off and it bled, meaning my mother had gone into cardiac arrest.

“You’re pregnant?”


“Why are you questioning a fact that you just made clear.”

“I’m questioning your ability to support me.”

“I’ve always supported me.”

“Not during my career in the circus.”

“You were the elephant girl.”

“It was all prosthetics. You’d know all about them.” She didn’t.

“How far along?”

“14 weeks.” I lied. I had no idea what to say. My mouth was a desert with no Arabian influence.

“3 months.”


“Who’s the father?” NO. It was Immaculate Conception.

“It was Immaculate Conception.”

“Don’t play, Sondra.”

“Too late for that.”

“I swear Sondra…”

“But you don’t fucking care…” and with that I strutted, mother with child, beyond the confines of the binary, the church, to the one place where I felt confident. You know it.

I knocked on a door. Who’s door? Don’t make me laugh.

The door opened.

“It’s me.” I kept eye contact. They didn’t.

“Sondra, what are you doing here?”

“I have news for you.”

“Come in…”

“Inside me.”


“You said come…”


“I said inside me. It was a joke.”


“But it’s not a joke… as I’m with child.”


“Yes. It’s yours.”

“Sondra, stop wasting my time.”

“I need to talk to you about it.”


“Because you’re the father.”

Jane Lynch had had enough. She closed the door.

“I’ll let you… style my hair.” The re-opened the door. Her interest was aroused. Her vagina had no reaction. I’d lost my spark.

“Come inside…”

“Inside me.”

“Get inside.”

The moral of the story is that whenever deals you a card that you can’t see through… Whenever life shits on your neck and offers you no after-sun, there is always a silver lining. I think it’s so important to have a companion who you can confide in. Mine? JANE LYNCH. We met in 2010 after a T.A.T.U concert and just clicked. I’m so honoured to be her little bitch and vice versa. She’s my surrogate mother. She’s my mother. Throughout this pregnancy I’ll need a mother, so for now, Jane will act as such.

I am due to start school in a week and still haven’t reinvented myself. I guess for now, Jane Lynch’s mistress would suffice.

*Bi girls.*


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