I can smell blood.

Not in a sexy, salivating as I stare at the vein pulsing in the side of your neck, kind of way.

It smells like iron.  Mineralistic.  Sharp and nauseating like a dirty penny.

I’ve cleaned vomit out of the cup holders of my car with a cotton swab.

I’ve woken up covered in toddler diarrhea, and drank a glass of wine and ate a bagel before showering it from my back and hair.

I’ve had pee in my mouth that wasn’t mine.

None of that side lines me the way blood does. It consumes all the air around me. I sweat, my ears ring, and my hands go numb.  That’s the last thing I remember.

There’s a small dictation in my chart…Faints during blood draws, keep patient horizontal and have smelling salts on hand.

As a result, I am a very cautious person, and do most of my open wound boo-boo kissing after daddy has covered the ouchie with a band aid.

Two days ago, as I drove home from the store, I called Andy as I turned onto our street.  I always give him a heads up to head to the garage to help me with the groceries.

It makes him feel manly and useful. Never mind that I can easily carry, like, 20 bags at a time, and he fumbles about carrying 5, completely put out the entire walk to the kitchen.

Can somebody get the door?  I can’t lift my arms to get the knob on account of these bags of bread and chips and air.

I have the last two jugs of milk, so everything is inside, except I left your trunk open, since I obviously couldn’t close it and hold these two jugs of milk, oh yeah, it’s pouring out and I think I saw a rattlesnake near your tire, but can you go close it, my arms feel weird and shakey.

Just another reason men can’t be pregnant.

If someone could please just hold my penis while I pee, it’s just too much weight on top of this fetus I am already carrying around.  Don’t forget to shake it.

As I pulled into the garage, he stood on the step with his mouth open in horror, which isn’t entirely surprising as I am a horrible in-garage parker.

I got out of the car and walked around to open the trunk and grab some groceries.

What’s your problem?

What the fuck did you do?

What?

There’s blood on the side of your car, what did you hit?

What do you mean, like a bug?

Um no, like a baby.

What?

I walked to the passenger side of the car, and he was right, huge streaks of bright red blood across my white SUV.  I’d either unknowingly hit a hemophiliac hobo, or drove right through the middle of a PETA protest.  My ears popped and got echo-like.  All the food in my stomach twisted upward, and as I dropped the bag of groceries, I knocked the right side of my forehead on the side mirror and hit the ground.

I didn’t entirely pass out, so much as all my limbs just stopped working, and every time Andy spoke to me, it was like he was doing it through a voice modulator.

It was a lot of blood, and I tried to think of what state to compare it to in terms of size and shape, but none of them really look like barrrrfffffff, so I drew these pictures to illustrate the events. (Bearing in mind, I don’t know how to draw people, only horses.)

Andy was all…Diddddd yoooouuuuuu hittttttt somebooooodyyyyy? Do weeeeeee neeeeeeed a lawyyyyyyerrrrrr rrrrrighttttt nowwwww? And I was like, what’s wrong with your voice, why are all your words turquoise colored?

Somehow, he got me in the house and into bed, where I laid face down on the comforter listening to Keeping Up With the Kardashians with a fan blowing on me for about 40 minutes until I felt like I could maybe stand upright without throwing up.

I walked out to the kitchen to find Andy loading the dishwasher.

Are the police coming?

You didn’t hit a person, you hit a giant bug.

Um no, that was way to much blood to be a bug.

And then he held up a gigantic bee, the size of a baseball. It was like what would happen if a normal bee had sex with a dinosaur.  If bees even have vaginas?

I found this in your wheel well.  They are all over outside near the end of our driveway, haven’t you and the kids noticed them?

Oh we don’t go outside.  I mean…it’s been raining.

Well, just try and keep the kids away from them until I can pour gas in their nests in the ground and light them on fire.

OhMyGod can I please help with that?

No, you are not allowed to kill stuff anymore.  You’re like Dexter with vertigo.

FYI.  They are called Cicada Killers, they are part wasp/part velociraptor, they dig gang bangs and murder, and they have replaced Cicadas on my list of scariest looking shit ever.

After the Bachelorette finale, I expected locusts, but I had no idea it would be this bad.

I’m never going outside again.

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