Thursday, July 28, 2011

No. 132 "The Worst Day (Part 2)."

If you missed Part 1, check it out here.

When one hears the words "We need to talk" from a girlfriend, there are four possible scenarios:

1) She enjoys mind-fucking you, and only wants advice on which shoes she should buy.

2) She is about to break up with you for banging her sister/mother/truck-stop hooker.

3) She wants to reevaluate your relationship by having endless conversations where she goes off on tirades about how you never listen to her while you stare blankly at her tits.

4) She done be pregnant.

Alright, where were we? Ah, so I had just received a message via MySpace from my girlfriend, (who I'll call Ly Inghoe to maintain her anonymity) explaining that we needed to have a conversation. No context, no clues; just those four frightening words. So, I casually deliriously made my way to the telephone and called her to figure out what was going on. I got her voicemail and left a message trying to sound as cheerful as possible even though my trousers were now saturated in urine.

You ain't cool unless you pee your pants.

A few minutes later I got a text message from Ly, saying that she was late for her period. Relieved, I told her to hurry back to class so she wouldn't get in trouble for being tardy. Much to my chagrin, she was not talking about her English class. She made it decisively clear that she was LATE for her PERIOD. My stomach began to churn as if I had taken a shot of gasoline and chased it with a match. I took a second to let it all sink in and tried to say something reassuring about the situation, but all that came out was: "Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck." This was not the encouraging statement Ly was looking for, and she decided the current conversation was over. But, before she hung up she made clear that she was "keeping it."

I suppose that saved me from an awkward conversation where I slyly hint the option of a schmabortion before I'm beaten down with a definitive "No" as well as an upholstery hammer. If only she was a Wiccan...

A few minutes later, after unsuccessfully attempting to hang myself with a computer mouse, I received another phone call from my future baby mama/destroyer of dreams. I took this opportunity to inquire as to how she knew she was pregnant. I was not given scientific facts or positive test results; but rather nondescript ramblings labeled under: "woman feelings" and "nonsensical bullshit." This gave me a glimmer of hope, since she had not actually taken a pregnancy test due to fear of being grounded and her lack of a motor vehicle.

I then dialed my sister, who lived in Scottsdale as well, to help with my current situation. After trying to explain the whole ordeal through my jumbled monosyllabic rhetoric, I finally was able to convince her to buy a pregnancy test and drop it off at Ly's place of residence in exchange for three 24-packs of Diet Coke.

Diet Coke: The ultimate bargaining chip when dealing with teenage girls.

I pictured my 17 year-old sister going to the local Walgreens to purchase a pregnancy test. I could see her alluding that the test was "for a friend" while she drew rolled eyes and a chastising stare from the elderly cashier who promised to "pray for her sins." Now, if I had to buy the pregnancy test myself, I would mask my purchase by sandwiching it between beef jersey, a Sports Illustrated magazine and condoms (for celebrating negative results safely). But, I figure that's just me.

Through various back-and-forth phone conversations and surreptitious pregnancy test drop offs, Ly finally obtained her pregnancy test while I awaited the results like a crackhead anticipating his next fix. To kill time, I decided to watch my favorite TV show, Maury Povich. Per usual, this episode dealt with paternity test results involving one hoe and seven men of irrelevant ethnicity. It was simultaneously ironic and cathartic. I found myself rooting for the 28 year-old unemployed loser to win this game of DNA Texas Hold 'Em; and spontaneously break into dance as his not-anymore baby mama ran into the green room to dramatically collapse while Maury feigned empathy and told her it would be alright.

"I call this my 'Not Having To Pay Child Support Dance!'"

(Sidenote: I am fully aware that I am destined for hell. But, I'm from Phoenix and used to dry heat, so the upheaval shouldn't be too dramatic).

After I was finished living vicariously through wannabe rappers on Maury, I thought about how I should have used a condom instead of a Doritos bag. Back in high school, we were required to take a three week course on sexual education. The lectures were less focused on educating youth of the risks involved in unprotected sex and more about showing abhorrent images of infected vaginas and penises on an over-head projector until the room was overflowing with vomit. The school nurse made certain to emphasize the repercussions of STD's, but failed to mention the worst sexually transmitted disease of all: unplanned baby. We have ointments, medications and cocktails for the other, more "celebrated" STD's -- but rubbing a medicated liniment on a baby will not make it go away.

Ly called me back later that day and said she was going to wait until the morning to take the pregnancy test since she wanted me to basque in fear for another twelve hours didn't have to pee. I offered to ship her industrial drums of Gatorade to help her with the urinary process, but my offer was declined. I reluctantly agreed to wait until the morning to determine my fate.

While in my fugue state, I envisioned what the conversation with my parents might be like. I figured it would go something like this:

Me: Hey, mom.

Mom: How is my wonderful and perfect son? Oh, let me put you on speakerphone so your dad can say hi.

Dad: I'm not giving you any more money.

Me: Um, it's not about that. I just wanted to talk to you about something...

Mom: Yes, honey?

Me: Ly is pregnant.

Dad: Nice knowin' you, fucker! (click)

Actually, the conversation would probably be a bit more theatrical; with crying, yelling, and punching converging in this orchestra of disappointment. I feared revealing the unfortunate truth to my parents more than actually becoming a father at the ripe age of twenty. I had to get my mind off this subject before I spontaneously combusted.

Just then, I got a phone call from my friend Jenny who was in town for the night. She was at her boyfriend's place and invited me to catch up and join in on a few adult beverages. It was a Tuesday night and I had a full day of classes in the morning, why the fuck not?

Part 3 coming soon.

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