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This was originally from a 1996 agony column, but it's a topic that continues to menance me, so I've expanded it a little...

 

the horror. . . the horror. . . .

[1st trimester]

1.1

There's something troubling me lately. It's the proliferation of pregnant women in my workplace. In the last two months, there have been two births. Lisa's all knocked up and looks like she's about to pop. And while the effect of all these women waddling around looking like they're about to tump over is hilarious, I don't like thinking about the biology behind it. They've all got creepy little monsters growing inside them like parasites. I don't want kids. Sometimes I like kids okay, sometimes they're funny or smart, but I don't want one growing inside me like a tape worm. They grow in there and press down all your organs and give you incessant heartburn and make you have to pee all the time and make your ankles swell so the only shoes you can wear are flip-flops. And then when they're finished leeching off you, they slide out like greasy little piglets all mucousy and pink.

 
c o n s u m e


I'm feeling froggy, so...
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If you think your email about how misguided or immature or selfish or wrong-minded or vapid or stupid or short-sighted I am is going to make me see the light, think again. Consider, perhaps, that your opinion might not be the only and best one out there. That maybe I've actually put a little thought into this. And that my choices don't diminish yours (and if they do, yikes for you). Have all the babies you want. Just leave me out of it.

Seriously, some random stranger's advice, no matter how thoughtful and articulate, isn't going to suddenly turn me into a different person. Do us both a favor and go play with your kid instead of wasting your time preaching at me.

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Disgruntled Housewife - PO Box 9052 - Austin, TX 78766-9052