This week major development is that fingerprints have started forming on my tiny fingertips, an act that my dad describes as the double F – me being forensible and hence fucked up.
My veins and organs are clearly visible through my still-thin skin, and my body is starting to catch up with my head — which makes up just a third of my body size now, that for my parents is not tangible proof for me being full of brines.
If I am a girl, I have more than 2 million eggs in my ovaries, a concept that is difficult to be smoothed and understood in my father’s head taking into account his freudianly perverted thoughts and hesitations how an unborn can be potential begetter of the even more unborn.
I am almost 3 inches long (the size of a medium shrimp – the comparison that makes my dad perplexed and distracted from his usual daily doings, in this case his confidence that the fruit analogy established just some two weeks ago would continue) and I weigh nearly an ounce, or in your world – a sip.
This is the last week of my first trimester, and now is the time when I get very close to my mom, in at least physical sense of it. I am making a temporary home, followed by my sober decision upon the pleasantness of the dwelling premises. And my nutritious reserves are just gaining in quantity, the prospect of enlarged boobs makes my old man happier and his eyes more enchanted. And we all hope that the doc will give us a green light to meet my friend Gene, her parents and my dad making a good business in the magical red drink town of
This is day number 92 and I am 13 weeks! I have 188 days or 27 weeks left, and I am 32.5% of the way there.
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