In case you're ever cancelled
All those follicles you've been carrying around in your pelvis like a pocketful of loose change are going to burst. You'll feel it — remember the bubble wrap? It might hurt, maybe even a lot. You will imagine each rupture making a tiny popping sound, and will wander aimlessly around your house puckering your lips to make forlorn splip noises.
Your doctor will advise you to have sex. It will occur to you to ask him for a prescription for roofies. (You will not, because you are well aware that no one finds you nearly as funny as you find yourself.) In your disappointment, having sex will be the very last thing you feel like doing. You won't truly believe it could work, but you'll do it anyway, despite the fact that your ovaries feel like they've been worked over with a Garden Weasel.
There will be so much progesterone oozing through your bloodstream that if you press gently on your forearm with a curious fingertip, it will seep oleaginously out of your pores. You will invite all of your infertile friends to come over, get naked, and hug you, just for the free hit. They will decline because you're kiiiiiind of weird when you get like this.
You will remind yourself over and over that the optimal time for intercourse is one to two days before ovulation occurs, not after you've heard the bad news. You will be disgusted with yourself for trying, because trying means hoping and, please, you know better. Nevertheless, you will know with heightened awareness exactly when your period is due.
You will feel pregnant. You'll know it's only the hormones, artificially jacked up and murderously potent. You will not think this big fucking joke is even moderately amusing.