You've Lost That Loving Feeling...

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.



What the FUCK is that NOISE?!?


Oh wait, that’s right. That’s just my BIOLOGICAL CLOCK TICKING! (Side note: why does no one ever say its tocking?)


But seriously. How can this be happening? I’m only TWENTY THREE!!!!


There are a multitude of reasons why this shouldn’t be happening to me right now. I’m not even going to try to list them all at this point except the most obvious, which is… I’m poor. No, seriously. I really am. I’m still like a small child… that smokes, drinks, and cusses like a sailor, but the point is… As mature as I am, I am still WAY too immature to procreate right now. I can’t even afford myself the majority of the time, so what the hell would I do with an extra human lying around?


Unlike me, the baby could not subsist on cigarettes, Coke, and Velveeta shells and cheese for long periods of time.


They need new clothes every five and half minutes because they either A.) Soil themselves in some fashion or B.) Have grown a foot since you (tried) to lay them down for a nap.


So, the question begs to be asked again, WHY ME?!? Why NOW?!?


What has caused my traitorous ovaries to send forth these messages to the rest of my body that say “Gear up, cause oh boy! Next time a penis comes anywhere NEAR the gate we’re going to turn into sperm magnets! We’re just going to suck those little fishies right up through the filter!”? Or, “Oh, that’s cute. A condom. Really? Do you think we haven’t figured this one out yet? How do you think your friends got here?”


All I know is that for the vast majority of my month (or two if they’re feeling particularly mean “Just doing the practice runs for the real thing! Don’t mind us! We’ll release our eggy hostage right after you’ve cried and peed on that stick for the fourth time!”) I am completely fine. I don’t even CARE about sex, men, battery-operated boyfriends, or double clicking my mouse, but then… out of nowhere… comes this feeling.You know… THAT feeling. The same feeling you get when you walk into Abercrombie & Fitch and smell the Fierce cologne they’ve napalmed the store with and have to physically restrain yourself from humping the mannequins. Oh yes, THAT feeling! Twenty-eight odd days of freedom and then perhaps you bump into something with your pelvis, or maybe sit down weird, feel the bass from the car next to you, or I don’t know, SNEEZE, and the next thing you know you’ve gotta have it and you’ve gotta have it RIGHT NOW!


Everything starts to look good. Ex-boyfriends have gotten hotter, next door neighbors are causing palpitations, and my, doesn’t that bar stool look inviting? It is all you can do to keep those hormones at bay with your ovaries screaming “TAKE ME! TAKE ME NOW!” at every fertile male that passes. And you know what? It’s all a trick.


Your ovaries are revving up the engine in hopes that some stray, decent looking Y chromosome will come near them, just begging you to please have sex and do it now, don’t you think you would feel better? Because they know… they know that that stupid little egg is all nestled up on its love seat, primping itself in the mirror and putting on its best lingerie in the hopes of attracting one (or God forbid, MORE) little sailors to its den of iniquity so it can have its way with it and then… “Oh, look what we made you! A BABY!”


And that’s just when they’re not causing me to double over in pain and scream.


That is their punishment for me. As if getting me so worked up I catch myself walking with my legs jammed shut just for the friction isn’t bad enough, they decided to launch a bloody (no pun intended) freaking JIHAD on my ass for not procreating.


They usually call a truce when I poke at them with my index finger through my stomach, bend over and scream “If you two don’t knock it off I’m going to SELL YOUR EGGS!” at them though. They’ll retreat, re-group, and launch a sneak attack when I’m not paying attention.


I’ve had this curse of womanhood for thirteen years. That’s right I was ten years old when this bitch showed up on my doorstep (or more accurately, my white shorts during Social Studies in the 5th grade). For the majority of that time, they’ve been doing THAT to me. They’re evidently getting really pissed off at me for not listening, because NOW… they’re launching psychological warfare.


I keep dreaming I’m pregnant. If that wasn’t bad enough, the last time I had this dream it came complete with an ultrasound with a due date and name on it. The due date minus the date of the dream was the perfect incubation time for a nice little human baby. My ovaries are better at math than I am. The only place they messed up? I will not be naming any baby of mine “Joseph”. No offense to the Josephs, but it isn’t happening.

Can anyone help me? And I don’t mean by knocking me up. I just want these evil bitches to shut up and leave me alone until I’m ready for them.

I'm tired of melting inside every time I see a baby or getting so bored I look up baby names which makes me want to have one even MORE!  Baby clothes, cribs, bibs, costumes, and the biggest one of all?  Little tiny baby shoes.  They get me.  Every.  Single.  Time.  Without fail. 

I need help....   Please?  I can't afford them, they're pretty expensive from what I've seen when I tried to price them on Ebay.  I want to, at some point in the next 18 years and 9 months, move back out of my parents house.

Comments

history_of_water said…
We corresponded a few months ago - remember history_of_water? If you just need or want sex to relieve some tension, you can always hit me up again. I'm good at it.

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