by Jane Etarie
horsebreedingbreeder: I've had four children and six miscarriages in the last eight years... I've been a busy gal, lol! But seriously, you get used to miscarriage after a while. It's no big deal, especially after three abortions. You just got to try again. You know... just keep throwing sh!t against the wall and see what sticks! My friends are surprised when I'm NOT pregnant, LOL! Number five on the way... so far, so good! You go girl!
hotbabymomma82: No Yummy, there are no laws. Rule of thumb is after the first trimester— and people will probably start to notice around then irregardless. You might as well put it out there before they start speculating or asking. Good luck!
lotusdreamer: horsebreeder=troll... you are on ignore.
concetta_fernandez: i'm waiting until the doctor feels the baby is safe.... i have had seven miscarriages and it is too painful to listen to all the sympathetic comments.... being reminded all the time, despite everyone's good intentions.... it is just too hard.
Oh my god, not hotbabymomma82. It was time to kill this thread. She is such a fucking know-it-all, especially after having her kid a few weeks ago. Now she's the fucking expert on everything about pregnancy and motherhood.
And her baby's a fucking goof. Seriously. It's like one of those depressed babies that cry all the time. A colic baby. But this bitch thinks the thing's a fucking angel. A little miracle. She brags about it nonstop. Like if it shits it just painted that Georgia O'Keefe vagina, or invented Assbook or some shit. Seriously, it's like the dumbest baby with all its crying and health problems. And ugly. She posted like a hundred pictures. It's got like a weird crooked head. I would shake that fucking baby if it were mine. I definitely wouldn't be bragging about it.
These miserable bitches were a drag. All their miscarriages and shit. I couldn't get a straight answer out of one of them. So I just told my bosses after I logged off. Pregnationdivas.com is fucking gay.
The Snail and Rooster
I drink everyday. Like I don't get shitfaced everyday, but I've got to have a drink or two. Like a glass of wine or a bottle to unwind. Like a night cap. It's no big deal, it's like cosmopolitan, like what the European bitches do.
Drinking at home every night gets boring though. Sometimes I've got to get out, or else I've got to take more pills.
But like where to drink? I couldn't go anywhere nearby. Too risky. Everybody at work knew that I was having a baby, and everybody at work is alcoholic. It's true. Like they drink to manage their mental illness or to forget what losers they are, but whatever. Somebody would see me for sure. I couldn't go to any of my regular spots. It's not like I was going to hang out and drink coffee and watch all the fucking drunks act like idiots. I'd need a drink just to cope. There's nothing more miserable than being sober at the bar.
And I didn't want to drive too far out of the way. You get caught driving back and it's just not worth it. DUI's are a bullshit nightmare. I wasn't going to just stay somewhere overnight or sleep in my fucking car.
So it hit me. I would go to a gay bar.
But really I got the idea when I accidentally went into a gay bar. The Brass Horn. I was just popping in for off sales. And I thought it was going to be a sort of country and western bar, but it was like a dirty gay dive bar. Like where dirty hairy gay bears and dirty hairy gay bikers hanged out. Like a bunch of no good dangerous pervs up to no good. Looking to get drunk, looking to get drugs. Looking to get sweaty, looking to get cock. Like horny, intense men. It was just too macho. This was not my gay. I felt like Simon Adibisi and his beany cap would jump out of a booth and stab me. Adibisi with his wild nigger eyes. His big smile, all white and crazy.
I left through a dark hallway with my bottle of vodka. A couple toughs were necking and grabbing their balls through tight jeans by a vandalized payphone.
But even though the Brass Horn was like gross and full of AIDS and danger, it still gave me the gay bar idea, which was perfect. I didn't know any like for sure gay people, so I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. And I didn't want to hang out with a bunch of dykes, I wanted to hang out with gay men. I once had a lesbian who looked like Leonardo DiCaprio come up to me in bar and say that she liked big girls. Whispered that she had a trough of lasagna back at her place— how would I like to go home with her and eat it? I just didn't need that kind of pressure.
No, I wanted man friends. Gay man friends. Things were getting complicated in my life. Like I had to make a lot of decisions and shit. Like I was making a lot of stupid decisions. And I felt that I needed a gay best friend, like a GBF, to listen to my problems and give me advice.
So I found the Snail and Rooster. It seemed like a normal pub. Laid back, casual. You know, kind of English style— all brass and green and red and dark wood. Pool tables, dart boards. There was like maybe two other women in there. It was perfect.
At first I felt like Holger, the foreign exchange student with the ponytail. I sat by myself in a booth and pretended to read. I had a couple of martinis and a few sweaty monkeys. That kind of relaxed me and I wandered around a bit, looking for my new friend.
I saw him sitting in a dark corner. A private nook. I could tell he was smart. He was like just sitting there, wearing glasses and drawing zigzags on a keno ticket. He didn't look too gay. I sat down and introduced myself. Started shooting the shit for a few minutes. Like, it was my first time here... nice place... come here often?... the menu looks pretty good... what did he do for a living?
And I'm like doing all the talking and he hasn't said much— I didn't even get his name— and then he tells me that he's expecting someone. It's kind of private, kind of serious, he says. Like one of their best gay friends just died and they had to plan a funeral or some shit. And so that if I really didn't mind, he wasn't so much into socializing, thanks.
It was getting late anyways. I didn't want to be up all night talking to some gay nerd about beauty products. About Project Runway and lubricants and anal sex. So I tell him that I have to go, that I hope his funeral works out ok and shit, and that it was nice meeting him.
And I was like heading out and I saw some posters on the wall. One had this dude pulling up his shirt to show his abs. And he's winking and he's got his mouth open, like all fierce. It says Hard Candy on the bottom of it. That was coming in a couple of weeks. And there was live music and dj's every weekend. Maybe I'd try then, I figured. It was only like Wednesday. Nothing going on in the middle of the week. So I grabbed a bottle of vodka from the bar and headed to the rear exit near the pool tables. I could always use more vodka.
And I don't know, maybe it was like my paranoia, maybe it was something they put in those sweaty monkeys, or maybe it was like actually for real. I couldn't say for sure— I panicked and left so fast. But it was like he was following me around, like he was some kind of bad karma spy. Like he was trying to ruin my life. I saw him standing behind some dude bent over the table. He was chalking a pool cue, laughing his gross annoying laugh. I swear to god it was him. I swear to god it was Dean.
C-section
I have a perfect pussy. It's true. I've been told so on more than one occasion.
Boo used to tell me all the time when we started dating. He'd lick my pussy and he'd go Mmmmm... you got a perfect pussy.
Same with my Uncle Randy. I'm not sure if he was like my real uncle or not. I think maybe he was like my half-blood uncle or some shit. I don't know, but I've known him since I was a little girl.
He was in town visiting mom. She was at work, and we were drinking and playing cards. I was fifteen, it was hot and the end of summer, and I was beating Uncle Randy at poker.
And I think I won, but I don't know, I really didn't know what I was doing at the time.
So I was all drunk and excited. I clapped my hands, snapped my fingers, tilted my head to the side and was all like, Woooooooo! And then I like dragged the poker chips to my tits. I think I started bouncing and dancing in my chair, and really maybe it was all too much for Uncle Randy.
He just reached across the table, grabbed me by
my throat, and smacked me in the face. I was like stunned. Then he pulled me by my side pigtail onto the floor, onto the cards and pokerchips, and he had sex with me. I mean, I don't think he really raped me, but there's probably some sort of laws against underage incest.
And that's pretty much how we spent the rest of our time that week, until mom caught us with Uncle Randy's dick halfway down my throat. And that was the last time that I ever saw Uncle Randy. But I was like still reminded of him going, Mmmmmmm...... you got a perfect pussy, whenever Boo said it.
And you know what? I've got to agree with them. There's a lot of ugly pussies out there. Like a lot of ugly pussies. Nasty snatches. And the thing is, mine's all natural. It's not like I've got to work at it. A lot of girls will put all sorts of weird ointments and shit down there, or even get surgery. Because they've got like horsepussies. Or labias that hang down to their knees. Or their fat cunt has so many lips and folds that it looks like a Shar Pei. Or a they've got a clit the size of a Chicken McNugget. It's true— I've seen them all. And some girls have just got these nasty smelly pussies. Like they've got these diseases. I'm not even going to get started with the diseases.
And then there's the girls in Africa. Like the girls who circumsize themselves. Like hack off thier clits with sharp rocks. Their pussies look gross. And then they like die of infection. But whatever. I'm not one to judge other cultures and religious beliefs. They do crazier shit down there anyways, like chop up albino babies in their cribs at night for good luck parts.
But for real, about the only thing I do is like kegl exercises sometimes. That's it. No special soaps, douches or lotions. And I'm not so much into the waxing if I don't have to. I like to keep a bit of hair down there so that I look like a woman. Like a Phil Collins airstrip, or sometimes a lightning bolt.
So there's absolutely no way I'm letting some baby beat the shit out of my box. It's not worth it. No baby's wrecking my pussy. When I give birth I'll be knocked out and the baby will get pulled out of the hole the doctor makes. It's no big deal. It's just another medical procedure. I've been learning all about it online.
A lot of these silly bitches will go on about their natural births, their underwater births, their standing births, their homebirths, their midwives. Their holistic approach. No epidural. Like they're bragging. Like you'll have an ugly baby, a shitty baby, if you go to the hospital.
Whatever. Any animal— any third world twelve year old— can have a baby the natural way. Any dumb bitch can give birth. It happens a million times a day. It's no big deal. And honestly, it's pretty fucking ugly. Nobody watches a calf fall out of a cow's asshole, all covered in like blood and afterbirth, and thinks it's beautiful. Nobody thinks it's cute after the cord is gnawed off. When the mother and calf eat the shit and blood and placenta, and the calf's lying there all helpless and half retarded. And there's nothing beautiful about some moaning bitch shitting the bed, spraying nasty fluids, while some slimy red fetus twists and drops out of her sweaty hole. Shreiking into the world.
Those bitches can keep their saggy cunts and natural child birth. They can brag all they want. I'm becoming an expert on C-section. I bet that with enough drugs and alcohol and a box cutter, I could do it on myself.
Egg
I started carrying an egg to work. I even drew a little face on it. It looks pretty good, like a baby.
I once saw this show on the tv where like the kids who go to this school are given eggs. Like to teach responsibility. To see if they were responsible enough to become parents. I always wanted to try that, not because I wanted kids, but because it looked like fun. And I would be partnered up with whichever crush I had at the time, and we would like bond and fall in love. Fall in love while we cared for our egg. Only they never did that at my high school.
I named my egg Hunter. Hunter Shiloh. That's the only time I was going to name my baby Hunter for Robert.
Mostly Hunter just stayed in my handbag. Like I'd just keep it open on the floor by my desk, with little baby Hunter lying on the tissue bedding I made for her. Hunter was a good baby, a quiet baby, and mostly she slept. I'd look into my bag, and she'd just be lying there. Like so peaceful. What was she dreaming about? I did a really good job on her face. The detail.
When I went to the shitter, I'd take my handbag with me. When I needed photocopies, I'd slip little Hunter into my pocket. When I was in the lunchroom, I'd hold her under my jacket, sort of by my boob. Discreet— not obnoxious— so no one would notice or take offence or think that I was a fucking lunatic holding an egg to my tit. I was like one of those Japanese kids. Those Japanese kids with the electronic pets, or pocket babies. Those little devices they have to like feed, change their shitty diapers, take care of when they cry, or else they like die of starvation, or of broken hearts.
And you know what? This was a good idea. For real, it was a good idea. With my mood pills and my baby egg at work, I don't think I stopped smiling once.
But sometime after lunch, my faery tale ended. The spell was broken. I looked into my handbag, hoping to see her serene face— I really did a good job on that face— and she wasn't there. I checked all my drawers, the photocopier, the lunchroom, I checked the Escalade to see if I left her there when I went for a smoke. She was nowhere. I felt the flash of panic that mothers must feel when their child goes missing, like when I can't find my cellphone. And when I got back to my desk, I saw my jacket on the chair, and the dark patch on the pocket. She'd been crushed. I think it happened at the supply room, while I juggled holding a box, some photocopies, and closing the door at the same time. She didn't make it.
And I was all like, Fuck me! Fucking gross... I just kept swearing under my breath, so I wouldn't freak anyone out. I was upset. I really liked that jacket. I'd just bought it, and I hoped the egg wouldn't stain it. And I forgot, or maybe I never knew, what you were supposed to do with egg stains. What a stupid fucking idea. It was obvious from the start it would end this way. Why didn't I just buy one of those Japanese things from the dollar store? I mean, an egg is pretty fucking ghetto, really. It's ok for some sexually active ten year old getting AIDS in Africa who doesn't know any better. But that's about it.
I asked if I could go home early. Like I was sick or something, because I was pregnant. Only I really wanted to get that jacket washed as soon as possible so it wouldn't stain. What a waste of time, waste of a nice jacket. Waste of an egg. But at least I learned a few things. That bringing a raw egg anywhere outside of a kitchen is a shitty idea. That I should probably not sleep with my newborn, so I don't like roll over and kill it. That I was actually pretty attentive, like eighty percent attentive maybe. And that I was going to be an awesome mother. That maybe I just had to practice a little more.
Aw shit, I'll just grab another egg and boil it this time. Draw a better face on it. There's like six or eight in the fridge.
9-11
You helping us move?
What a fucking prick. Unbelievable. And I'm thinking What else, Dean? You want me to lift your car while you change your oil? Need a boost? Got a jar of pickles or two that need opening? What a lazy slug. I hated that we breathed the same air. I wanted to hold my breath, or stop his. Who asks a pregnant woman to help them move? I mean, I was going to help, but I was just sickened, like just disgusted, that he'd asked.
Yep. We'll find a new home for that couch of yours, Deaner.
Oh my god I wanted to puke. I wish I could've taken that back. Deaner? Maybe it was because I was almost over and done with him? Maybe I was like trying to be nicer? Like when someone's going away, or moving or dead, you act like you'll miss them— even though you're glad to see them go? I don't know. But I was appalled that I called him by one of his nicknames. He liked to be called Deaner. And Weed, or Weedman. He told people shit like, but you can call me Weed, because his last name sounded a little bit like Weed. What a douche. Thank god I didn't fucking call him Weedman, or seriously, I would start cutting myself again.
And then he's all like, Thanks. Can't be easy
carrying shit with that big belly of yours.
He stuns me. I don't care if he's just joking. You just don't say shit like that to people. I wished he would get raped by a farm animal. For real. A violent pig. Get jackhammered by its monster corkscrew. Split in two by its veiny penis. I wished he'd felch that horny pig and die. With all his skilled slurping and ass sucking. Get an excited hoof right to his stupid face. Bleed to death in all the muck and pigshit.
Robert and Dean had no choice but to move. Robert hadn't found a job yet, and Dean had no real income. They only had a few days to get out of there. Robert wasn't legally allowed to drive for another two years, and Dean had a couple of shitty cars, but they were both rotting on front lawns somewhere. That meant we were using the Escalade, and Tyler's van. Robert didn't have much to move anyways. I wasn't bringing that shit into my home. It was mostly getting rid of his junk, and moving that sick couch into whatever alley Dean wanted to sleep in.
I was still in a really good mood about all of this. I didn't give a shit what Dean said. It was all over now— life with Dean was finally over. So I was all like, It's going to be weird not having you around so much... you'll have to come by and visit though. Especially when we have the baby. I know we're going to need a babysitter.
And then I kind of scrunched my nose and curled up the corners of my lips, like I was doing my best to fake smile, but it probably looked like I'd just sucked off a lemon.
Only things are never that easy for me. I should have known. Shit changes on a dime. And in a few seconds, I was thinking— this is what I get— this is what I get for trying to be nice. This was like some garbage karma for sure. It was like life just kept shitting on me. Dropping these dirty shit bombs on me nonstop. Dean might as well have been riding a camel and hiding a fucking 9-11 jet under his turban. My world just wouldn't stop blowing up and falling to shit.
