Oh, Justin Timberlake. Oh, how you mocked me. The year was 2006 and you were hot, hot, hot you little twat, twat, twat. Do you know what an increasingly pregnant woman doesn't want to hear? "I'm bringing sexy back" repeated 9 million times over three minutes, break for commercial and play it again.
As I was driving the A6 back and forth from Schwetzingen to Mannheim and puking into my grocery sack you were bringing sexy back. Months later my daughter kicked the hell out of my belly dancing along to your club mix. You know what's not hot in the club? A hugely pregnant woman.
You slacker you still didn't have sexy back by the time I quit work in late June 2007 but you were still talking about it. I couldn't type because my hands were too swollen. A lack of air conditioning, an office downwind from the dump and fifty pregnancy pounds combined to make me leave a job I loved sooner that I would have liked. I thought I was leaving you behind too but no, it was not to be. My daughter adored you from the day she was born and occasionally I'd have to whip out the Timberlake to quiet the Froggy.