Yeah, that’s right; you did what every single warm-blooded human being on this planet has been doing (or trying to do) since they discovered that their genitals (and buttholes, for the more adventurous) can be used for more than expelling waste… You had sex; only this time around, you were trying to get pregnant, as opposed to avoiding it like I avoid the fat girl eyeing me from across the bar as if I’m a human doughnut.

you were trying to get pregnant, as opposed to avoiding it like I avoid the fat girl eyeing me from across the bar as if I’m a human doughnut.

That said, stop acting as if your impregnation and subsequent birth are on the same level as the second coming of Christ. (Anyone see that crazy missile/alien/meteor thing the other night? I digress…) In your world, I understand they are. Having a child is a big freakin’ deal; it’s why I don’t have one of my own. But when you broadcast it to the world via the Interwebs ­– and I mean every little detail from your dilation in centimeters (I shit you not, I read that just the other day) to the length of your baby’s “wee-wee” upon escaping your wretched womb (thanks, Seth MacFarlane and “Stewie”) – it takes what should be a beautiful moment (yeah, life is a fucking miracle when you ponder it), and both belittles its significance and irks the shit out of all your friends (both real and Facebook-ey).



