Another school year, another semester condensed into 48-hours-worth of just enough studying to get a 3.0. If college were any easier, it’d be a former Teen Mom star coming out with a sex tape. Time to pick up those brain cells out of the textbook, and back to where they feel more at ease- the bottom of a Woodford bottle and a night out on the town. No need to bring a condom with you to the bar, because if all those science lectures you had this semester taught you anything, it’s that affluent suburbanites cannot get STD’s or unexpected pregnancies. At least, that’s what you assume was being taught in your Bio class, because Lord knows you were too hungover to even consider the daunting task of rolling out of bed at 1:25 on a Wednesday afternoon.
Head’s throbbing, and all sorts of smells are making your taste buds pungent. The serendipity of your blackout pre-dawn walk from an unfamiliar bed is interrupted from a text coming from a strange number.
“Had a great time last night =)”
Bet you did, you anonymous flash in the pan. The fact she has your number is kind of concerning, though.
31 missed calls, 8 voicemails, and 16 “we need to talk” texts later, you finally respond to the same anonymous number from earlier, if only to get this obvious nutjob off your back. From experience, clingers of the Stage 5 variety require a well-thought out, articulate message in response, one that delicately straddles the thin line between conveying to her “not interested, leave me the fuck alone” and “not interested leave me the fuck alone.”
Strange number: “I’m late.”
Haven’t slept. Just more drinking. Followed by drunken, paranoid pacing. Followed by more drinking. Followed by looking up at the mirror and screaming, “How could you be so stupid? I mean, who doesn’t use protection? Really, retard, in this day and age of AIDS and teen pregnancy, who still gives out their real name and number?” Followed by a championing smirk with an attached, “at least you learned your lesson from Iraq, and didn’t pull out prematurely like a liberal.”
Never mind you not using a condom. That’s just a silly idea. After all, money spent on a pack of miniature-sized Trojans is money not spent on a pint of shitty pub beer. This really was Whatsherface’s fault.
Your announcement at chapter regarding your dilemma is met with scoffs of disbelief.
“We assumed you were gay.”
Realize that when you had previously asserted that you were pro-life, you assumed everyone knew that you only meant when it involves poor people. You clearly weren’t talking about yourself. How was that implicit condition not obvious?
Drink enough whiskey to wash the temptations of liberalism out of your soul. Fuck it, me and Whatsherface are having this thing, you decide.
Note to self: learn Whatsherface’s name in the next 9 months. Time permitting, of course.
Agree to a “let’s get to know each other” dinner outing between yourself and Whatsherface. Get drunk and pass out watching the Red Wings playoff game instead. It’s not like the fetus is going anywhere, so why not enjoy your precious few remaining days of freedom.
Begin to think of the plus-side of having a kid. For starters, it’ll give you an excuse to dust off the ol’ mitt for a father-son game of throw fastballs at each other’s dicks. Not to mention how big of a babe magnet pushing a baby in the stroller down sorority avenue can be. It’s like walking your dog on steroids. Yeah, maybe having the little unwanted bastard will have its benefits.
Start shooting around baby names in your head. Jonathan is nice. Elliot’s decent for a chick. Perry has an authoritative ring to it. Jan Eetor remains a possibility if you want the little turd to have an exotic twist to it.
Realize the only potential baby names you’ve mustered were inspired by characters on Scrubs. Consequently, you conclude that at this point in your life, you and fatherhood go as well together as Princess Diana and a mob of pursuing paparazzi.
The prenatal optimism continues to fade during your weekly trip to the grocery store. One of the cashiers in the poultry aisle is emptying several shelves worth of product. After asking what the cashier is doing, he responds, “these eggs are expired and rotting. They’re no good anymore, and need to be thrown out.”
Some guys have all the luck.
Remind yourself to stay rational. Force yourself to remember that children are a blessing from God, that if a new baby in your life is the most depressing thing you’ve ever encountered, that you’ve had a pretty charmed life. You are not a victim. It could be so much worse. Like it or not, it is your duty to be in this kid’s life.
Buy a handgun. Give away your Kenny Loggins collection. Write NO HOPE in blood across your bedroom wall.
Tearfully look down from the fraternity rooftop at the traffic below. See the smiling faces of children, who are also presumably bastards. Bet yourself they wouldn’t be so chirpy if they knew that mommy was a whore and daddy was an alcoholic. Search for a landing spot on the concrete below that is free from the rubbery hereditary liver cirrhosis of four-year old bastard children. Just as you’re about to make the fatal plunge, your iPhone alerts you that you have a new text message, which you open only for, I don’t know, plot continuity sake.
Strange number: “It came.”
You: “Period or it didn’t happen.”
Strange number: (sends picture of used tampax)
Oh, thank God. Ordeal = over. Number = deleted.
With that weight off your back, time to go out and make the same fucking mistakes you committed 20 days prior.
2 months later
Find a “Happy Father’s Day!” letter in the mail. Begrudgingly walk to the fraternity rooftop while trying to remember where you put that gun.