“Sorry,” said the surgeon. “We don’t do that here. We don’t have the equipment to monitor if your heart stops.” “I don’t care if my heart stops,” I said, glancing across the room. He laughed. I love when doctors find my panic funny. “So what do you use?” I asked. “Just regular Novacaine,” he said, and then shot me in the mouth from all angles.
You watch Back to the Future and read a little Audrey Niffenegger, and you think you know everything. Have you considered that, in the wrong historical moment, you could be picked apart by lions for the amusement of a coliseum, or die gasping and spitting from cholera?
Siobhan marched over to the farthest corner of the apartment, where darkness seemed to intensify the zoo-like odor. “Here is where I keep the feral ones,” she said, gesturing towards a mass of eyes. Pointing to a figure slinking out of view, she added, “That one I call Osama Bin Falafel.”
Let’s say you — grown, responsible, possibly partnered, somewhat solvent person — have agreed to have children. They’re important to have for various reasons: in case you need a kidney later in life, or a loan, or someone to spring you from jail because they feel obliged to. Your parents can also serve these functions but only for the term of their natural lives. So! How many, then, should you have?