An anthology of nonsensical ramblings and mild humor: The Nordic Child

On some days, I watch many young ladies walk by, fresh vulvas and all. They appear graceful, adorned with gifts of their undeservedly wealthy mediocre husbands. Yet I feel no resentment. I accept the unfairness of this world. Their vulvas, like mine, will soon bear children, stretch and lose their pubescent charm. Their breasts, firm as they may, will soon face their archnemesis: gravity, should they survive the assault of a bloodthirsty 18 month old nordic boy and his prepubescent urges. The girls are no more merciful on the breasts, owing to their budding neuroticism. This is the tale of a lady, who went from flat to bust to flat again.