A Message From Snooki's Unborn Child

Hey Snooki — I mean, Mommy,

Word on the street is that you’re totally pregnant and I’M your baby. Damn it! I knew it was you! I mean I didn’t know exactly because I’ve never watched the Jersey Shore before — give me a break, I don’t have eyes yet! — but I could tell from hearing your voice that you weren’t an ordinary mommy. You were… special?

I’ve been gossiping with some of the other unborn babies around here and apparently you’re a total psycho. Rumor has it that you got famous for essentially resembling a giant donut and getting repeatedly wasted on a reality television show. Is this true, Mom?! Am I going to have look at footage of you and your vagina flopping about when I’m a teenager? Gee, thanks. SO EMBARRASSING.

Well, there is one plus side to having a famous mom. All of that money!!! I’m gonna be rich, bitch! Thank god because I’ve always idolized Suri Cruise. I somehow always knew that poverty just wasn’t the look for me, so I’m overjoyed to become a trust fund baby. If you really are as terrifying as people make you out to be, you’re going to probably give me everything I want, right? You’ll have trouble setting boundaries and want to be more of a best friend type than a mom? The thought of that worries me a bit but whatever. Keep giving me Arabian horses for Christmas and I won’t have to freeze-frame the image of you getting arrested while intoxicated on the beach. A ball of placenta once told me that guilt and shame are powerful human emotions that can be used to extort money. So yay!

But wait, do I really want a rich trainwreck for a mom? Why couldn’t I have just been Blue Ivy, dammit?! I was so close. You know what? Maybe we should just break up. I’ll live inside of you for nine months and then we’ll just go our separate ways. I’ll come out of your vagina, take one look at you, and crawl out of the hospital myself. I think it’s for the best this way. No harm, no foul. I live my life, you live yours. I’ll be fine. I’ll just find out where Jay-Z and Beyonce live and roll myself to their front doorstep. They’ll open their door and see me looking back at them with a note attached that says, “I’m Snooki’s child! Help!” They’ll both gasp audibly before taking me in and adopting me as their own. Dream come true!

So let’s make the next few months as pleasant as possible. Try to eat healthy please so I can get some nutrients. All I’ve been subsisting on for the last few months is pickle juice and a three-month old box of wine, and I know that can’t be good. So cut it out! Be chill and responsible until I can fly away into hip-hop royalty’s arms.

Okay, I G2G. I can feel my eyeball developing and it’s weird. But look, I don’t want you to feel like I’m rejecting you. I’m sure you’re a super nice person and all. I just can’t deal with having a mom named Snooki. I’m sure you’ll understand. TTYL.

P.S. I can smell your farts from here. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Ryan O'Connell

I'm a brat.

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