My girlfriend is pregnant.
I just found out.
I’m making her get an abortion this Saturday at 10AM.
Those are the three text messages I sent to my best friend Rudy, in that order, last weekend after my girl gave me the news that she had a bun in the oven. It wasn’t easy news to hear. I don’t know if I’m ready to be the boyfriend of a girl who had an abortion.
When we’re in Target I like being able to walk through the baby section without seeing my girl cry while she makes the baby booties dance. I like driving by a Babies “R” Us without my girl getting all sad and saying, “But babies aren’t us!” as she cries all over the leather seats of my new ride. I like being with a happy chick, you know?
Before she took the pregnancy test she was acting like she was about to get her period. She was eating up a storm, telling me that her tits hurt, complaining about cramps—everything seemed normal. But then she just never started bleeding.
The day we found out she was pregnant, Samantha came out of the bathroom with the test in her hand, biting her lip and smiling at me with a twinkle in her eye. I asked her, “What are you so happy about, baby?” and she jumped in my arms and screamed, “Yes, a baby! We’re pregnant!” I stared at that little blue plus sign on the test for what seemed like hours.
The questions came one after the other. How am I going to pay for this abortion? What do I do if I can’t convince her to fix this thing? What was the flaw in Scott Peterson’s plan that made him get caught? You know, the typical questions that arise when you realize the next month of your life will be spent preventing fatherhood.
I know babies are cute and all, but stretch marks and Silly Putty boobs just don’t do it for me. Samantha’s tits are already pretty bad. The nipples are kind of low and they’re way too long. It looks like she’s wearing string cheese as nipple tassels. They kind of look like broken pinkie fingers. I can’t even imagine what they’d look like after some little insufferable parasite sucked on them for a year.
Besides, I don’t know if I can stand having another crying ball of helplessness around the house.
It only took about an hour to convince her that baby removal is our only viable option. Thanks to me, she’s got an appointment this Saturday to get rid of the damn thing.
I know I probably seem like a heartless bastard, but only god can judge me, because only me and god know the whole story. Thanks to a tragic childhood accident during a heated game of pogs, I’m infertile. That’s right, I’m shooting blanks.
And while I’m incapable of ever fathering a child, I’m fairly good at checking the phone bill for strange numbers. And Rudy texts my girlfriend a lot whenever I’m working a double shift at work.
So, Rudy, if you’re curious about what your son looks like, search around in the medical waste containers around the Choices Women’s Medical Center in Long Island City this Saturday night. I’m sure he has your eyes.