It’s a boy; an infant born of my pleasure. Is his Mother in love with me? Am I in love with her? Together we share the bond of this little creation- a hideous thing. Born yesterday, he looks like an alien. Good God, keep him wrapped in a blanket! He disgusts me. For the past 8 months people have been congratulating Mother and I. Is it a boy or girl? What is his name going to be? Mother, have you been baby shopping? Mother, when is the shower? Mother? Mother? Mother? To the pregnant girl’s defense, she was radiant with her bump. All I could think about was ‘Is that baby going to feel me when we have sex?’ Sick. I know. But what is more sick is that I am in a stinky hospital watching Mother’s not-so radiant face gawk at this vagina-desimating spectacle. I never wanted this. If we could fast forward 5 years from now, I guess the child would be alright. As it stands, this ball of life has fucked my whole life up. I’m going on tour with my band nexth month; I’ll be gone for 3 months. Mother begs me not to go. Why? We begin to argue. She is right. I have responsibility now. I’m right. I don’t give a damn. Fuck you and that life wrecker! In all reality, I won’t go on tour next month. Nope. I’ll be getting a job: some bullshit occupation that might cause me to commit suicide. Looking at Mother scrutinizing me, I want to off myself right now. “What!?” “You haven’t even held your boy and you’re judging him!” Hold him? I’d soon rather gag, but she is positioning him to be handed off to me. What am I doing? I take him. She panics at how improper I’m holding him. Then I cradle him correctly. At that moment, staring at his little face, every love song comes crashing down on him and me. I gaze in bewilderment. I tear up. I hate you, life wrecker. You are the most precious thing I’ve ever witnessed.
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