A woman’s face is never the same after birthing a child.
That weird melted-candle-wax bloat never goes away, not even for Miranda Kerr. Love is supposed to be blind, but I’d bet the fathers can see the difference in their wives’ faces after she pops out a sprout. I find everything about a pregnant woman disgusting. I enjoy kids and adore women, but during the time the two are sharing a body together I want nothing to do with it. I can’t even eat anywhere near a pregnant woman.
People have all kinds of phobias. Mine just happens to be pregnant women. I checked to see if there’s a word for such repulsive beings and the closest thing to it is a phobia known as tokophobia; the fear of childbirth or pregnancy. I think of maggots festering under the skin of the homeless, cows lying down on their sides and warm, wet bloody calves oozing out into the dirt and hay and how it sticks to their wetness. I think of wet shit oozing out of their assholes. I think of blood, guts, and brains.
Then of course, after a woman actually gives birth her body appears warped and I feel as if I could use my finger to push back their teeth, because it’s as if a small bomb went off inside their body and the structure is damaged. I picture the battle of Berlin. I think of air campaigns, WWII bombers, and what the halves of houses look like after the ammunition has been dropped. I picture huge brick walls crumbling and how the bricks scatter into the streets. I picture death, because a baby reminds me of my own mortality. This little bastard will live longer than me, see new things and experience all of the great things in life for the first time. Meanwhile, I’ll be dead.
I think of stretched-out vaginas, torn-apart taints, blood, and how little desire I hold to go down on a woman that’s ever given birth to a child. I think of all of the filthy porn I’ve ever seen. I picture full fists being shoved inside women’s assholes, enormous dildos connected to jack-hammering sex machines and the women engaging screaming in pain. I think of apples, oranges, cantaloupe-sized red plastic balls, and everything else I’ve seen peeking out of a woman’s stretched-open vagina. I think of abuse.
Then I wonder what the hell I’ll ever do if I myself get a girl pregnant. I’ll have to leave the country for the nine months she’s pregnant. I’m sorry, but I can’t be a part of this if she ever expects me to love her again. I’ll be back, I promise. I don’t understand how husbands do it, but I get why so many boyfriends bail when hearing the news, “I’m pregnant.” Unfortunately, most of these boyfriends never return, but that’s where I’m different; I’ll return, I’ll come back. So let’s get an extra stitch put in when sowing up the ripped taint. I’m in this relationship for keepers, but that first nine months is a much-needed separation required if we’re ever going to make this train roll.
I wish babies grew in the ground like a carrot or a watermelon; I can accept that with open arms. A baby should start with a seed being put in the ground and nine months of watering regularly. You laugh, but there would no longer be cocaine babies, cigarette babies, or slow-speaking alcohol babies. Everyone would get a fair chance at life. A woman’s face would stay the same and so would the allurement of her inner thighs. When was the last time a family man went down on his wife?
I think reproduction should be illegal. For realsies, people should have to apply for a permit first and they must be married—no exceptions. I see single pregnant women and wash over in frustration of how crowded the world is. I imagine sitting in traffic, tripping over some bitch’s kid at the mall, long fast-food lines in the food court, the amount of beef being sliced, diced, and chopped in slaughterhouses in Texas. I think of USDA guidelines.
Fuck you when I want to see a new movie and every goddamn seat is filled. I want to see the new Batman, too motherfuckers. I imagine Jabba the Hut, because everyone is a huge fucking fat ass shoveling popcorn, hot dogs, and handfuls of cheesy nachos down their throats followed by two litters of cola.
Then I see in the future.
I see how the fetuses growing inside a woman’s tightly stretched, bug-like stomach will ooze out and become next to nothing; just another fuckup that might break in my car. Not everyone can be a college graduate, don’t they see? How can every parent believe their kid will be the one in the family that will go on to achieve huge financial success? Just once, I’d love to hear a parent say, “My kid is going to be the biggest piece of shit ever.”
Just once, I want honesty.
You hate me and its OK, but at least I’m honest with myself. It’s OK to laugh, because I’m laughing, too; no one will get hurt. I think more than anything I hate shitty people and seeing a pregnant woman only reminds me of more to come. Do we have any connections at Trojan? I’d love to put all this into a condom commercial.
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