I don’t know what celebrity POS show I was watching, but one of the stories was about a set of identical triplets all pregnant at the same time. Not just any triplets. The Dahm Triplets of Playboy notoriety (NSFW). Or so I’ve read since I let my Playboy subscription expire years ago.
Apparently they’ve also shown up several times on The Doctors, which is due to one of them being married to the executive producer, who also happens to be the son of Dr. Phil. Keep the crazy in the family, and all that.
I love my sisters. I confide in them. One of my sisters was my Maid of Honor. But it would take a hell of a lot of liquor combined with illicit drugs to get us to strip naked and mutually admire each other’s boobs. And with them being identical, isn’t that the epitome of narcissism?
I never would have given the story another thought if it hadn’t been for the announcement that these three women are no more than eight weeks apart in their pregnancies.
Most days I feel like I’m freeing myself of the sticky web of bitterness that was spun from infertility. But literally in an instant, I am mentally right back where I was two years ago: entangled in angry bitterness.