babies have absolutely zero business forcing their way into the conversation of two drunk, sexy consenting adults prior to the 127th date, but bitches is old. i know half our eggs die by the time we're 27 or whatever, and the number of viable ones rapidly decreases with every subsequent year, blah blah blah fertility dance blah. and for those of you who are going to grow one, i totally understand why you introduce yourself to a first date slash prospective partner as, "katefrommatch.com myclockistickingdoyouwantkidsorwhat?" and dudes have clocks, too! most commonly in the form of nagging mothers and concern-trolling sisters/aunts! which is why i gotta let them know right up front: yes we could maybe have a kid but no it probably won't look like you. and we'll likely have to undergo a background check while the stork checks our urine for party drugs.
you know how i feel about shame. it's a useless emotion, sister. especially when some asshole is trying to force that shit ON YOU. feeling guilty is lame, which is why i won't be doing any of that. you know how many times people i 1 am not having sex with 2 am not in a relationship with 3 only know from facebook 4 wasn't hatched by TRY TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD for not what, trolling craigslist for donor sperm? stealing an infant from a hospital nursery? making a really unwise choice for a woman who routinely spends her last ten dollars on bourbon and magazines? god, SHUT UP.
biology. man i had no goddamned idea there were so many motherfucking gynecologists walking around disguising themselves as the bitch who works at the bank and the fine dude who i met at the recycling center that one time. want to know how to figure out who they are when they're out in public sans lab coat? MENTION THAT YOU HAVE ZERO PLANS TO PROCREATE. brings those sneaky bastards right out of the woodwork! one minute you're at dominick's buying a box of strawberry gogurt because you are too lazy to eat your probiotics the conventional way, and the next minute you're being diagnosed by the gynecologist at the register who just decided that despite your dead ovaries you need a baby so that you don't have to be ashamed of buying children's snacks for yourself. why thank you, latasha. can't believe i spent all that time wasting my co-pay when i should've been buying more wheat chex. i know how my body works. and how it doesn't.
physiology. now that i'm off birth control, i don't get my period regularly. another party favor? copious amounts of chin hair. also still happening: crohns disease ravaging my intestines. letting a tiny terrorist hijack the space next to THE MOST NECROTIC AND DISGUSTING TISSUE IN MY BODY hardly seems like a good idea, amirite? so how come i have to explain that to strangers who press me about why i'm pushing a (stolen) ice cream cart rather than a stroller down the street? i had to tell a woman at the laundromat "listen, if i had a kid i'd be on welfare and disability so stop asking and let me fold my giant panties in peace" to get her the fuck out of my face. i have to walk around with a list of my ailments to keep bitches out of my uterus now? seriously, SHUT UP ALREADY.
lifespan. this meatbag of a pre-corpse has been slowly decomposing for over thirty-three years now and, frankly, i don't have the time or energy to spend ten whole months incubating an alien spawn that might not even love me even if i give it cookies for breakfast. i'm planning to live hard and be dead by forty-seven. stop messing with my destiny. and shut the fuck up.
don't let these breeders fool you; raising children is hard. i fucking love babies. but here's why i'm glad i don't own one:
1 you can watch whatever you want on television. i watched that ass-eating episode of GIRLS in real time at full volume. you know why? because i didn't have to wait for my seven-year-old to stop faking like he was asleep before sneaking out of his room to watch his mom look at some titties.
2 kid shit is expensive. did you know that children's shirts cost as much as real human shirts?! i can buy 137 heather grey layering tees at old navy for approximately $9 total. RIGHT THIS MINUTE there is a chambray romper at baby gap that costs $26.95, and there is a printed tie-waist dress at person gap that costs $29.99. the dress that little meatbag junior will wear for approximately five hours before she shits in it while simultaneously growing out of that 1/4 yard of fabric costs almost as much as the dress your drunk ass is going to wear to brunch, to your friend's graduation, to that sorority dinner you grudgingly accepted an invite to, to the bars, to pierce's boat party, to your cousin's wedding, and probably to work if you accidentally fall asleep in it at your hookup's place. this year and next. until i can dress my child in napkins, i'm cool.
3 you don't have to learn how to be a motherfucking hostage negotiator. have you ever watched some helpless parent trying to convince his kid to do something the kid is absolutely refusing to do? my FAVORITE THING EVER is watching some frazzled woman with a half-undone ponytail and mismatched socks trying to reason with the shrieking child belly flopping on the floor at her feet. children are unreasonable. they don't sit politely weighing your argument against whatever the fuck it is they've decided they want, they make their demands, and if you don't give them whatever the hell it is they want, immediately, their only recourse is to SHOUT AND SCREAM AND CRY. anecdote from the life of wee baby sam: my parents were not fucking playing with me. if i was being a bitch no one sat me down to let me air my considerable grievances with the establishment, i was given 1 a warning glare and, if i failed to heed it, 2 fingernails dug into the soft meat of my upper arm until my knees buckled. once my mother and i were in less-on drugstore and i decided i wanted an imitation barbie. my request was denied. i restated my case, more fervently this time, raising my voice just enough to let that woman know i meant business. "don't try me, bitch," my four-year-old tone implied. "i will THROW A FUCKING TANTRUM, on your ass." she continued to ignore me in her quest for bunion relief.
so i took a deep breath, relaxed my diaphragm, and i started fucking howling. i really let that shit rip, screaming and sobbing and piquing the curiosity of every other person in that store. a young woman rushed over to see if i'd stabbed myself on an old pill box or something, but my mom stiff-armed that broad and dropped her basket full of soft foam corn pads, tossed me over her shoulder, and threw me into the back seat of her yellow chevy caprice so hard that it knocked the wind out of me. i was shocked. when the other kids in preschool pulled that shit their mommies immediately caved and gave in to their outrageous demands, just to make the shrieking stop. but they obviously had nice mommies. this asshole wasn't going to bargain with me, she was going to beat me within an inch of my life. and we danced that dance four times a day every day, if not more. and fuck all of that.
4 i don't really know that much shit. the first time i figured out my mom was dumb was a real eye-opening experience for me. i asked her, a licensed practical nurse, why hair turned grey. seemed like a simple enough question. i mean, she did work with doctors all day. it wasn't like i was asking her to explain how a goddamned rocket ship was constructed. the blank stare i received in response is burned into my memory to this very day. i fucking hated school, and i know very few things that would be of use and/or interest to a small child. so unless my kid wants to talk about nipple hair and how to eat a burrito on the toilet without getting bathroom germs on it, i'm fucked. SIGH OF RELIEF, HEAVED.
5 you need a job. but when you have a kid you need a job job. i love my job. and maybe if i had an accountant and a money manager i could figure out how to raise a couple spoiled brats who will resent my inability to buy them iphones with my meager hourly wage, but who would that be fun for? i make really good money for a bitch who only went to high school, but let's be for real: THIS AIN'T MONTESSORI MONEY, BRO. my kid would not be able to:
-have fly, name brand clothing
-eat organic meats
-drink coconut water
-use cloth diapers
-do his homework on an ipad
-wear the new jordans
-take anything other than refined carbs for snack day
-have chuck e. cheese birthday jams
-text girls on his own cell phone
-not share a room with me
why? BECAUSE HIS BROKE MOM SUXXXXXX. also, how can i keep my gear crisp if i'm constantly buying $27 dresses and gluten-free snack cakes for my shorty? i have enough trouble trying to keep myself current, shit. the struggle is real out here. i almost had to get a fourth generation iphone, omg.
so don't feel bad, cuties. (not that you do, but everyone always assumes that you do while ignoring the fact that you backpacked alone through peru last year and did a lot of other cool childless person shit.) YOU ARE NOT ALONE, I AM HERE WITH YOU. besides, check your facebook feed: all of your friends are shitting out spawn. so babysit. teach those youngsters to swear and let them eat jelly beans all goddamned afternoon, then give those bitches back and go fuck some dirtbags and eat a hot pocket for dinner.