No Kids.

Permanently, anyhow.

Honestly, having children of your own… forever. Stupid life decision.

Sure, I bet some people are just cut out for that type of domesticity, but not me. For one, I can’t cook worth a hoot, or at least have no interest in trying at it. And just the thought of making or permanently adopting another human life force that will look to me for how a person should function… no way. I am no kind of exemplary… example. Yeah, I’m a good enough influence (or used to be) on kids that were exposed to me at minimum levels, and mostly at public places. But a constant little person wanting me to mother them? Gross.com/getmeouttathere. And I even like kids! I genuinely do. I like making weird faces at them while their parents aren’t looking, and speaking to them like adults to see how they react, and even playing stupid games with them in the church nursery. And kids freaking love me. I am the most requested lap at VBS lesson time.  And yes, that last sentence sounds a little pseudosexual, but get over it.

All of the positive interactions I’ve had with kids were short-term with slightly more than minimal responsibility required. And that works for me. Nursery volunteers? Sign me up! Babysitting? Sure! Just write down the emergency numbers… 9-1-1… got it! But real life sons and daughters? There are better ways to die than a slow boil. A boil of worry and doubt and fear and nervous ticks. Cannot handle it, and I am currently in a life position to firmly state that I will not handle it, and have no reason to have to feel guilty about it. I declare it to be so.

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Kinda applicable… kinda not.

I’ve thought this for  a while, and evidence keeps piling up to support me in this thought train of mine. One, my parents. They have been great parents to me, truly. Ridiculously sacrificial. But they freaking shouldn’t have been parents. They would have had much more fulfilling lives without us four cinderblocks strapped to their frantically paddling necks. They could have done things, bought stuff, gone places. All the things I want to do at this juncture in my life, they’ve missed out on. Because of a quadruple effect of the hungry mouths to feed syndrome. It’s literally driving them crazy on this youngest one, and they still have four to eight years on her. A vicious verbal attackfest betwixt mother and said daughter tonight mostly prompted this little textual tirade of mine. Two, you never know what a kid is gonna freaking do. Whether it’s tantrumfest in a restaurant, ripping your heart out with terrible life decisions, or shooting you in the face before a crazed killing rampage… they’re damn unpredictable little buggers. Yes, yes, these are outliers or exceptions or my own penchant for hyperbole getting the best of me. But the sliver of a chance makes me cringe. Three, I know that the ‘joy of parenthood’ outweighs all the shit they go through for their offspring, but a lot of parents seem miserable, or at least very very tired, almost all of the time. And, while I have no ‘love for my children’ obligating me to grin and bear the heavy load I am completely positive comes with being the parent of any type of child, I will politely and wholeheartedly decline the offer, Uterus. Go away.

So, in short, rent kids and buy a monkey.

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Would you rather…? But seriously.

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