my cervix is not a subway platform...

...or a footscray* tram stop for that matter.

ladies, read here.
men, this link is for you.

(many thanks to the shofferhoffer for passing this bit of info along).

while this type of satire is delightful, it is painful to acknowledge the facet of truth in which it is steeped. exhibit A:



unfortunately, at the rate i'm going it seems as though my future husband will not only be holding a bare stem, but one that's been de-thorned and stripped with a vegetable peeler. good thing i am hoping to eschew the husband notion and shack up with my future partner in a sort of goldie hawn/kurt russell-esque de facto blasphemous cohabitation situation. will jesus still love me? does jesus actually care?

i applaud those of us whose cervixes (cervices?) manage to straddle the fine line between public toilet and spring-loaded steel bear trap.

*while the suburb of footscray has the dubious distinction of being one of the most undesirable places to live in the melb, it deserves credit for (oddly enough) housing the headquarters of lonely planet publications.