Took my uterus home, stop. Hiding in bed, stop. Heating pad and a quarter pound of solid milk chocolate, stop. If anyone wants me, will be reading the most goofy, adorable, romantic fic I can find, stop. Do not send search parties, stop. Those who find me will be shot on sight.
No stop there.
I wonder if the Ancients had these kinds of problems. If you think about the Wraith as a result of a really bad set of cramps and homicidal tendencies toward the galaxy, they suddenly make an amazing amount of sense.