Not Me

Blood pressure rises. Right eye twitches. Teeth grind.

"You're depriving me of my son's children," she asserts.

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can unleash a torrent of logical arguments peppered with much-needed profanity, I realize how futile the effort will be.

It is my eleventh argument with that woman over reproduction, and it always ends the same way: "I don't see how your life can be fulfilled without children," she states matter-of-factly, and I slink away to the security of the bedroom.

Much like rabid sports fans, parents cannot understand why some people do not partake in their chosen hobby.

The basketball fan burns down stores and flips over cars when his team wins; the parent burns bridges and flips out when someone makes the innocent comment, "I do not want children."

Try to have a rational discussion, and they leave in a huff.

Any defense of a childless lifestyle is shot down by one of their nonsensical, please-justify-my-decision-to-ruin-my-life reasons.

"Children are our FUTURE!"

Indeed, and that is exactly what they will say about their children, and what their children will say about their children. In the meantime, we are slowly losing any hope of a future. Everyone is too busy spawning the future to try to ensure we have one.

Why put the weight of the world on a kid's shoulders because you are too stupid, lazy and incompetent to do anything worthwhile? Just admit you are a failure, and as such, you will give birth to the next generation of failures.

"Your child might discover a CURE FOR CANCER!

It is just as likely he will torture kittens, wet his bed, listen to some ridiculous death metal band, be socially inept and eventually, stalk women like prey to compensate for his sexual inadequacies. But neither of those outcomes is likely.

Any hypothetical child I have will undoubtedly be another cog in the wheel, just like his mother. Few people substantially deviate from the norm, be it curing cancer or slaughtering redheads.

I have no hopes of becoming a famous or well-regarded writer. I know my future lies at the Dogpatch Dispatch in Oskalooloo County, where I will write features on the oldest woman to raise the largest tomato, and the youngest child to have all of its appendages sliced off by farm equipment.

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll end up writing articles on trends in plus-size wedding attire for Modern Bride.

If I'm lucky.

And that is still better than what your daughter is destined to become – a permanent clock-watcher with acrylic nails and a penchant for balding dimwits from Greece.

"Who will take care of you when you get old?"

Given recent trends, I have to assume my caretakers will consist of a burly ex-convict and a welfare-to-work gomeril, both of whom have sticky fingers.

Children no longer want the responsibility of caring for their senile, incontinent, curmudgeonly, diabetic, heart attack-suffering, stroke-recovering elderly parents. The responsibility has been passed on to slightly retarded certified nursing assistants.

Even a couple with seven children has no guarantees that their progeny will remain in the area and run them to the grocery store, doctor, barber, etc.

"You won't know true love until you hold your child for the first time."

Or true hatred.

Millions of children are physically and emotionally abused by their parents. Somewhere along the line, these parents were not informed that children should be one's only "true love." (Although some parents get that message loud and clear, which would explain incest.)

No child would be safe under my care. Death is likely. Maiming is certain. Jail is imminent. I am a confirmed misopedist and no child, even if sprung from my loins, would be cherished.

Unless I could sell it on the black market.

Maybe then we could talk.

Providing jack-off material for white misogynists since 1997.

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