I got knocked up. The problem is, I love drinking, smoking, snorting coffee beans and treating my body like that piece of rubbish the neighborhood feral cats play feline soccer with. My husband is super ecstatic about future baby, but he still gets to smoke and drink. I've quit everything, but this sucks. I want a damn cigarette. Boooo.
So you've resorted to penning questions to yourself. Solid.
Look, you're the one who went off birth control. You're the one who sexually assaults your husband, on occasion. (It's not assault if both parties are willing.) You knew from your brother's and sister's 11 combined kids that your family is fertile. (Irish Catholics. "Ahhhh," chimes the world.)
So, you know the deal. Unprotected sex = fetus frenzy!
You already quit smoking and drinking because you know it's harmful to that little swimmer down there. (Even though he/she doesn't really give a poop about you because he/she keeps making you technicolor yawn in the work toilet.)
What I've learned from the men's room is that after all the sacrifices you make, it'll be worth it once that little thing poops out.
A mini-Fantz is what the world needs! Our writing can't go on forever. After beating up this body for so long, we're going to crumble like a poor middle-aged Great Dane and probably kick the bucket early because we're so damn tall. (Like Kristen Johnston — that one dude from "3rd Rock from the Sun." Wait. He's not dead. She, Christy. She. Right.)
Plus, we haven't drank milk for a solid 11 years, so those lanky bones are on their way to a pile of decomposed powder. (Great. Now Amanda Bynes is snorting said calcium-deficient pile because she mistook it for crushed benzos. What a mess.)
Ergo, we need spawn to help wipe our messes up.
Quit crying like a schoolboy bitch. Quit French kissing stale cigarette butts. Quit whispering sweet nothings into that PBR tall boy's ear. You look like an idiot.
You're a worn out bitch anyway. Go melt into bed while spooning a barf bag until the cravings fade.
Give yourself a pat on the ass for getting "healthy." It's time for us to stop treating our body like a goddamn Furry caught in a spiked human hamster wheel.
Sigh. You're welcome, baby.
Disclaimer: Unlike your bouts of negativity on social media, this topic will not consume my columns. Just thought you sexy little readers would like to know that I am now booze- and nicotine-free.
For a SHORT period.
Ugh. Tell me when short's over. I'll be over here face down in a pile of cheeseburgers.