I’m going to be honest.

This confession didn’t spring wholly from the recesses of a tormented mind wanting to unburden itself of the horror that it holds.

No…not at all in fact.

It came as a direct result of a new “I Must Confess” blog hop started by Kirsty at My Home Truths that I noticed last weekend.  (I will be linking up this week Kirsty!)

Of course…as soon as I saw it, I knew exactly which confession was sitting way up there, pressing down on my shoulders, any time I gave it the chance to surface…and believe it or not, there have been a few occasions when I have been very close to confessing.

I mean, it’s not everyone that can claim to have killed Kylie.

Yes…you heard me right.  I said Kylie…yah…Minogue!

Bu before you get all ‘but she is awesome’ or ‘pick on someone your own size,’ let me just explain…I was under the influence of pregnancy hormones…and I’m only 5ft 3 and ¾’s myself…so it wasn’t an completely unfair fight!

I must have been in the early stages of pregnancy with the Woo.  I was spending the majority of my days worshipping the porcelain gods with the most horrendous case of a.f.d sickness.  (I’ll let you work out the abbreviations).

Hubbster, ecstatic at his reproductive prowess, and on this particular occasion uninterested in my suffering due to having a few unexpected guests in the man cave, decided to ditch the-pamper-the-newly-pregnant-wife-Saturday-night plan, in favour of a get-pissed-with-the-boys variation.

To be honest.  At the point, I think I was happy to be left alone with my family size block of chocolate to watch ‘Big Brother.’  (And BOOM!  She drops bombshell #2.  Yes!  I was a closet Big Brother watcher!  Beats the footy season!)

It was later…during the early hours of the morning, when I was woken from my slumber to the sound of bass coming from Hubbster’s shed. 

It was over five years ago now, so the exact details may be a little foggy but I believe the series of events went something like this:

Eyes open.

Hear Hubbster’s music booming from the man cave.

Get out of bed to tell him to turn it down…and STOP HAVING FUN WITHOUT ME!  How dare he?

Realise that I am vertical…and tired…run to the bathroom and vomit.

Sulk that I am the only one on a Saturday night vomiting whilst sober.

Swill with mouthwash.

Vomit again.

Grab dressing gown and march out to shed to tell Hubbster to S.T.F.U!

Open shed door just as Hubbster and his cronies pause the DVD on Kylie’s golden hot-pant-clad butt (on the projector screen so she is almost life size) to ogle and roar with delight.

(KA-BOOM!  Triple Whammy Confession – Hubbster actually purchased ‘The Greatest Hits of Kylie’ DVD…for himself!  And he isn’t gay…and he definitely can’t dance…so the only reasonable conclusion is that he did it for a perve, right?)

Well, after delivering my lethal dagger glare at Hubbster and attacking his volume control in a most unlady-like manner, I marched my little pregnant-peed-off-booty back to bed.

But…and this is where it gets dark…

The next morning I awoke, and was instantly incensed by the pungent scent of alcohol leaking from hubbster’s pores and the loud buffalo-snores echoing from his throat.

The image of Kylie’s cutie-hot-bootie burned into my brain melded with the imagined growth my own buttocks were about to endure.

 This is when I made my ill-conceived, pre-meditated, hormone-fuelled decision to murder that impossibly beautiful bitch.

I STOMPED into the shed.

I pressed the ‘eject’ button on the DVD player.

And then I taught that floosie a lesson she’d never forget for flaunting her bits in front of my intoxicated husband.

(Because clearly it was all her fault!)

I snapped that disc in half!

The initial euphoria, I admit, was extremely short lived.

I spent longer standing with the broken pieces in my hands wondering if I needed ‘help, ’ than I did revelling in my crime…but only just!

Finally I opted to hide the shards of the  disc in my car, to deposit in the bin at work on Monday, and spend what has felt like an eternity, shrugging my shoulders guiltily, every time Hubbster nervously enquires whether I have seen his Kylie DVD.

So there you have it…that’s my dirty secret.

When I was pregnant, I killed Kylie.

Let’s just put it down to pregnancy hormones shall we and say no more.

P.s. Hubbster – That does not mean you can buy a new one! Bahahaha!

Tell me, (please…to make me feel a little less of a freak) did you do anything when you were pregnant that you’d like to blame (solely) on the hormones?