Sometimes I’m sad. I’m at that delicate age where my peers spend their Friday nights either snorting coke off of strangers’ genitalia in club bathrooms or reading Dr. Suess to their children before tweeting about how great their lives are. Yes, it really IS that polarizing (no, it’s not)! Needless to say I fall somewhere in between. I spend my Fridays watching Netflix and crying.
So sometimes when I’m sad, I think about all of the women who came before me, snorting coke and delivering babies, sometimes at the same time. There have been relatives, friends, and of course celebrities, who have all incited jealousy within me for one reason or another. But what never fails to halt my desire for children is the constant presence of celebrity pregnancy headlines that feature on the front of Yahoo! News in front of the election results, above Afghanistan death tolls.
So I decided that tonight, on my 6th day of consistent blogging, I would focus on a topic near and dear to the hearts of every human on the planet: Pregnant American Media Whores. Those people who use pregnancy, ie. Human life, to increase their chances of trending on Twitter. Those people whose very existence is the greatest possible promotion of Abstinence.
These people who make me want to abort myself.
The Pregnant Man
I hate the pregnant man. Almost as much as I hate those “My Daddy Works Here” construction signs telling drivers to slow down. It doesn’t make me want to slow down. It makes me want to kill your daddy and teach you how to spell. Starting over.
I hate the pregnant man.
With a blind rage.
I know it’s silly to waste my emotional energy on something so frivolous to my actual life. I can’t help it. Every time Yahoo posts another irrelevant headline about him I want to do a Rosie the Riveter fist pump. It’s not that I have a problem with transgender people. I absolutely do not. I’m all for the dismantling and installing of sexual organs! I see no problem with it and frankly don’t understand why it is even a social issue.
That being said…
I hate the pregnant man.
Here is why. He was NOT a man! I realize that in a social, emotional, self-actualized way he was, all of which I’m cool with. But let’s not pretend this was some medical discovery allowing men to carry babies. He was an anatomical woman at the time that he gave birth to his three children. This is not an example of “I think therefore I am” but rather “I have a vagina therefore I menstruate.” So unless he has a womb in his testicles and gave birth through his urethra, he was NOT a pregnant man.
This entire situation really bothers me for two reasons.
- Giving birth is a strictly female privilege/curse, though my frequent nightmares of doing such a thing lead me to the latter. So somehow calling him a “pregnant man” just bothers me from a female perspective. Should we call him the “menstruating man” and give him headlines for that? No. But that is just as female and would be just as much of a phenomenon had he male genitalia. His biological gender deserves a little more credit than the media allows.
- He’s a media whore.
Kris Jenner is a completely wretched human being. I realize that blogging about her only contributes to her wretchedness as it increases her wingspan of media whoredom, but when talking about media whores and pregnancy, it is impossible to ignore this person.
Not only has she managed to mold her various spawn into worthless pallets for manufactured personalities, but she also thinks of herself as a celebrity too. Aside from the fact that instead of taking the route of shame when her daughter Kim Kardashian’s sex tape was released, she got her family a reality show, she completely abuses the parental role she plays in all of her children’s lives, pimping them out like the cheap hookers they look like on most red carpets, for her own gain.
Though I can’t quite explain why the Kardashians are famous, I am 100% sure it has nothing to do with 56 year old Kris and her botoxed neck. Which is why I find it especially disturbing that for her son Robert’s most recent birthday she blogged (what the f*** happened to Hallmark?) this picture:
Did I already use the word wretched?
Oh yeah, twice.
There’s not much left to say about Octomom. She treats her vagina like the Lincoln Tunnel and uses the lives of 14 innocent children to keep herself relevant on TMZ. With all of the recent stir about her $500 haircut and the hairdresser’s decision to contact authorities about the welfare of big O’s children, it’s safe to say that if nothing else, Nadya Suleman got what she wanted. Not many ladies still get attention for giving birth three years after doing so and although I’m sure the concern of losing her kids has crossed her mind, she knows she can always have another litter.
Frankly, I don’t know why anyone is worried about her living conditions. Sure a tiny rental in Los Angeles is a bit tight for 14 kids, their mother, and all of the voices in her head, but I’m sure it’s more comfortable than her uterus.
I feel sufficiently better about life knowing that whenever I get pregnant, I will not us my pregnancy as a media welcome mat. But what other despicable beings have I left out? I need to know so the next time a friend announces she is pregnant or I consider kidnapping a neighbor, I can simply Google and blog.
The girl who longs to trace Octomom’s stretch marks with a marker…..Just kidding!!!! I didn’t say that…..
How to Handle Your Ex-Husband Having a Baby with the Girl He Got Pregnant While You Were Still Married: A Survival Guide
There comes a day in every woman’s life, when she wakes up and says to herself “today is the day my ex-husband’s new girlfriend is giving birth to the baby he impregnated her with while we were separated.” In fact studies show that women are more likely to get killed by a terrorist than NOT experience this exact situation before the age of 40. Have I blown your mind with this disturbingly specific statistic? Yeah, I thought so.
On said inevitable day, these women will become flustered by mixed feelings of jealousy, resentment, and inexplicable craving for Texas toast garlic bread, and will brutally penetrate the depths of their souls with record-breaking levels of masochism so frightening Kurt Cobain will begin to look like a totally balanced human being. They will find a way, while family members are distracted by conversations of GOP candidates and the real purpose of Craigslist’s Missed Connections, to retreat to a private place in the house, alone, with the stealth of a cat and the self- mutilation of a child actor, and seek information from the Oriole of Petty Truth (OPT) known as Facebook.
For those unfamiliar, the OPT is an effective tool that can assist people of all ages in finding socially relevant information about their friends and family, (birthdays, relationship status, sexuality confirmations of the suspiciously flamboyant, etc.). But, it also doubles as a source for the unhealthy – the sick – the self-loathing, sad, sorry, sons-o-bitches that need Facebook profile proof of the painful suspicians they carry, to find information they really shouldn’t have access to in the first place.
Needless to say, the OPT is the only option to confirm the suspected birth of the ex’s love child. Upon confirmation, these women will experience an outbreak of tears, stress-induced gas, and an emotional collapse bound to involve shaved heads and lipstick tattoos. Think this is too specific to not be based on my own sorry existence? Ha! Fooled you again, silly readers. Why, I never have and never will discuss my personal problems and impending emotional downfall on this joyous and uplifting blog…
Eh, hem. Anyway.
Since I take the Taylor Swift approach to relationships (ie. throw myself into them whole-heartedly and once they are over bash my ex through some subtle, but so totally cute, self-expression) I really don’t care that blogging about this is sort of over the top in the TMI department. Also, I asked my mom if she thought it was ok and she responded with a silent fist bump. So, I had my answer.
So last night, after skillfully maneuvering my way through Facebook and finding proof of my excellent birth prediction skills, I nestled into my seldom-washed bedding, and stared at the plastic-glo star stickers pasted to the ceiling of my bedroom by the previous owner’s children and cried like a bitch. Through a fetal-positioned, tearful rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” I thought about the progress of my life thus far and the unfortunate disaster of marrying someone with addiction issues and highly active sperm. I thought to myself, there must be other people who have experienced something similar to my unwanted, but totally necessary separation, followed by a brief discussion of reconciliation, that was shot down by the unexpected pregnancy of the woman the ex started dating five months into the separation. There has to be someone else out there experiencing a similar need to dry-heave an abundance of confused emotion and Texas toast all over herself in hopes of making herself feel better. It for the presumed existence of those people, that I write this post.
There is nothing worse than feeling like you’ve been screwed over by someone you loved, only to have them have a seemingly happier life than you. But since it is the unfortunate reality of my life and every ousted Rock of Love contestant, I have devised a way to deal with this type of wretched occurrence. Here is my four-step system to dealing with your sadness and avoiding the nearest bridge.
- Let yourself feel hurt – You can’t pretend to be emotionally bionic just because you’re tired of having puffy eyes and no dignity. You have to let yourself feel whatever you are feeling if you are going to get past it. I’ve learned that most things get a little better after a good night’s sleep and a few hours allotted for sadness. Once you wake up and the hours have passed, it’s time to get over it.
- Remind yourself of why this is a good thing for you – While he may be naming his new baby the same name you discussed naming the one you’d have together, you are free to pursue new life experiences and new relationships, baby-free. You are not with a person who doesn’t respect you, you are not with a person who doesn’t value you, and most importantly you are not with a person just because pulling out is an unreliable method of birth control and everyone knows it but you. You have a lot going for you, despite your emotional baggage and unfortunate amount of stretch marks.
- Accept that everything happens the way it is meant to – If you two hadn’t met, married, and separated, he would have never met the woman he got pregnant. Whether you believe in fate, God, or just really unfair coincidences, it is clear that things happen as they are meant to. You can’t f*** around with the universe, you can only hope it doesn’t f*** around with you.
- If all else fails, have cyber-sex with a hot foreigner. It’s anonymously slutty and doesn’t require a condom. Can you say score?
All cleverness aside, the situation for myself and all the fictional women I referred to, sucks. Whether or not you take these steps, won’t change the temporary shittyness you feel. All you can do is suck it up, let it go, and remember pregnancy causes stretch marks too.
The girl who shuns Mark Zuckerberg for his dangerous creation, despite her intense crush on Jesse Eisenburg in the film, (startling wit meets asshole tendencies? Swooooooon)
WARNING: This blog post contains graphic depictions of my wasted youth that in no way reflects on the other members of the 99%, but rather leeches off of their popularity in hopes that the mere mention of the 99% will illicit further readership.
In the international social system, the people are represented by two separate but not equally important groups: the destitute 99%, who don’t like to bathe; and the unreasonably r*ch 1%, who never have to wear the same pair of underwear two days in a row. These are their stories.
December 14, 2011
After a lengthy evening of bedside reading and late-night cyber intercourse, I startled myself this morning when I awoke prior to the nine o’clock hour. As I stretched my limbs, I was greeted by the heavenly sun. I gazed in wonder at its blossoming rays, remembering the words, of that guy, in that one Youtube video, who said the sun is one of few things left that is still virtuous and uncorrupted, knowing not of class warfare, Katy Perry, or my attempted tax evasion. I paraphrase of course.
The two family shih tzus, Sam and Molly Bean, greeted me and helped me to dress. As Molly tied a ribbon in my hair, I cradled Sam, softly humming the melody of “Sing Sweet Nightingale,” a song so beautiful, I nearly forgot about my dwindling credit score and non-existent retirement options.
I travelled to the house’s single washroom, where I bathed with toilet water and Comet. I proceeded to brush my teeth with such vigor and disdain, my toothbrush shattered, dramatically, in my hand, splitting into two pieces. This was the first red letter moment of the day.
After bidding farewell to the defective remains of the Crest corporation mouthpiece, I spent several hours baking Christmas
cookies. An activity formerly reserved for the bottom-feeders of society, unable to afford fancy Wal-Mart bakery goods, has at once turned profitable! This holiday season, I am selling cookie trays as a supplemental, unreported, income. I cackle in victory every time I deposit the virginal checks into my credit union, unmolested by the greedy, corporate, government, Wall Street, fat cats, gobbledygook.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon, indulging in the performing arts, single-handedly choreographing and performing a dazzling rendition of “Proud Mary” for the dogs. They validated my efforts with a sneeze and a yawn. I was touched.
By the evening I was off to work at the local coffee and donut establishment where lack of customers and professionalism, allowed me to blast Bob Dylan, write on my laptop, and obnoxiously consume three large coffees in six hours. One customer tipped me $1 for serving a $1.75 cup of coffee. I smiled and thanked him, but spat at the ground where he stood, as soon as he exited, scoffing at his condescending gesture. Surely he was one of “they who must not be named”….the 1%.
…I just named them
After work, I journeyed yonder across town, weathering the elements on my two mile drive….
I can’t lie. I’m writing this from work. I’m bored. There are no customers, except one creepy pregnant chick sitting in the corner, eating a McFlurry and staring at me, and some old dude who keeps talking about how he sleeps in the nude. I worked here in high school. A few years later here I am again, with a college degree on my wall, a certificate of divorce in my desk, and nearly three years of seriously professional work experience, with salaries, commissions, paid vacation, and health insurance to validate it. At least I have this blog…right?…RIGHT? Shoot me.
Just as I was writing this the pregnant chick came up to me and showed me a text of her daughter-to-be’s name. Then she told me about her G.E.D. test and her problems with her cheating boyfriend, who says he loves her, even though he’s broken up with her four times since she got pregnant. She makes me sad. Like a three-legged puppy or a pageant baby. I want to adopt her.
Now I’m going to go mop the floor, wipe the counters, and run into a knife.
Thanks for reading.
The girl who despite harsh sarcasm, actually supports the Occupy Movement