37 days and counting

Sometimes I wish there was a way to beat the shit out of my body without actually hurting myself. Because honestly, it could use a good ass-kicking right now. 37 days. It has been 37 days since my last period, but still, one pink line. A wasted trip to K-Mart(3 trains and a 10 block walk away) for a wasted $11.99 First Response Early Detection pregnancy test for one fucking pink line.
I really thought we had done it this time. It would have been the perfect conception tale. I would have loved recounting to our offspring about how they were conceived in my childhood bed the night before Christmas Eve and that on Christmas Eve I had prayed to God for my own son while listening to Michael Rogers finally sing 'O Holy Night' with a thousand candles burning around us. It was supposed to be my own little Christmas miracle.
Cooper would have had a baby friend. My peak pregnancy would have been photographed at my little brother's wedding in May. My 30th birthday would have also celebrated the end of my first trimester. Michael would have gotten his little buddy.
But no, one pink line, and still no flow to speak of. Not even a spot. No cramps. No tender breasts. No salty chocolate cravings. No abnormal mood swings(well, Michael might disagree with that one.) No red on the TP. One pink line.
I gave up the opportunity to buy and drink one of my favorite bottles of wine, cut out caffeine and ate mostly vegetables for 6 whole days, all for what? One pink line.
Never again. I will never again pee on a worthless stick. They're officially banned. First Response is dead to me. They can ride their little pink line straight to hell.