For all those brand new mums out there fighting a teary battle because your hormones have taken control of your brain and are whispering naughty things to you.
They’re bad like that hormones are, and while they’re whispering away in your ear, your body is fighting those naughty hormones every step of the way and beating them back into submission… (this is the only time the words “beating into submission” should ever be used together and referred to in a good light) … and that war is taking place in a new mummy’s mind.
Sometimes the body whose doing most of the fighting needs the mummy to give it a little help every now and then, and asks that you too beat those naughty hormones back into submission. Otherwise those feckers will take control of the mummy vessel, and those bastards never chip in for fuel and don’t even have a license to drive a mummy vessel anyway.
They’re like the hoons of the mummy vessel who saw that she was parked up on the verge feeling a little tired, a little down and thought, ‘We’re takin this mother out for a ride Goddess damn it!’ and so they did, they took the wheel, and those feckers are doing zig zags and burnouts, and the mummy vessel is almost out of fuel.
Just as she runs out, those naughty hormones abandon the mummy vessel on the side of the road, a little to the left of where they first found her, making sure that the minor damage they caused while having their naughty fun, would hang around for a little while.
The mummy body is the cops you called to come and sort out those naughty hormones, to catch them and lock them away, where they deserve to, no where they should have been all along.
Then the Mummy vessel body police tell you everything will be alright, ‘We’ve locked up those naughty hormones and even though you’re feeling a little down after the damage they did, you will feel better in a little while.