My Chosen Consort, Darth Continent

Upon reading the last dispatch from Herself, you may be tempted to conclude that She is exaggerating slightly. While I usually encourage people to give in to temptation, as it is a quick path to the Dark Side, in this case, Herself is not exaggerating in the least. A giant, liquid- and baby-filled behemoth is in My home RIGHT NOW. While I am aware that this is only a temporary condition, and that Herself will soon reassume Her normal body state, it is incumbent upon Me to point out the fact that I get to suffer along with Her. I get to be awakened when She cannot sleep. I get to help Her move Herself around. I get to massage Her aching extremities. I get to experience a blow-by-blow of all the complaints listed in the previous post. She gets the pity, and I get to be the brutish thug who knocked her up. Very well, so be it. I need no pity. But I promise you this, by all that is unholy:

The next person to ask Me if I am excited will receive My full, unadulterated, unexpurgated, bone-flensing wrath. And that person will experience said wrath for all of eternity, or until they expire, whichever comes first.

My excitement died along with my full night's sleep. I do not blame Her, She cannot help it, but the rest of humanity needs to shut the hell up with the stupid questions already. Of course I will be excited when TWITCH arrives. Now, I await that arrival. It should be obvious to anyone who possesses the ability to breathe with their mouth closed that I am delighted to have a TWITCH on the way. Forgive Me if I refrain from gibbering like an idiot about it everywhere I go.