Uh yeah, the BABY isn't on my guest list.

Once a month, I have an IRRATIONAL fear that I am indeed; PREGNANT.

Well, I take that back- it's not so much irrational when you're having sex, that's pretty standard- so I've heard. Sex=risk of babies. The word RISK being a very cherry-picked choice of wordage, if you will. Simply because, at this point in my life, having a baby would be like, slipping on ice and breaking your ass forever- therefore leaving you with a limp, and a blowup donut pillow that must be taken with you everywhere you go. But, when walking on ice, you take that risk.

That sort of irreversible risk taking. Baby carrying is like tattooing your face. You can't rid yourself of that tattoo once you decide to get it...and obviously, it's on your face which, would HIGHLY affect your day-to-day functioning. Like babies.

All that being said, when you have your "little bundle of mushy-baby-powder-poopy-pants JOY", when you're READY for it, I'm sure it's complete euphoria.....a type of euphoria, I'm certainly NOT ready to have. Sure, ecstasy is AWESOME -to some people, but not my preferred drug of choice, thank you very much. It's sort of like how, I'd like to eat five pounds of cake without of the "risk" of gaining weight. Can I please have five pounds of sex without of the risk of a seven pound, oh-my-good-god-dream-crushing-ounces of baby?

Precious? Yes, they are. But not for me-right now.

STILL, because of my inability to take my birth control pills on time, (so I'm popping four of them at once like bad-baby-breath-mints), I grab each boob when they start to feel a bit "tender" and say, "YEP. I KNEW IT. A baby." Then...sure enough, Aunt Ruby comes along after a delayed flight from False AlarmVille, all unapologetic and "fooled ya kiddo, I just took a detour to Bali first!"

I know I'm not ready for a baby because the word BABY, makes me choke on my spit and break into hives. Instead of waking up in a panic after a baby dream, I wake up in a full SWEAT covered in golf ball sized tears. A "blessing" HELL NO, not a blessing a fucking nightmare....that's what my parents called me "a blessing." I.E. A surprise, a "mistake", a lets-hurry-along-that-wedding sort of "blessing" and what'd they end up getting, a little HELL CHILD that was nicknamed The Mean Bean until she was thirteen and finances SO STRAPPED that their idea of a "date night" was trekking two miles to the 7-Eleven for a Big Gulp.

Fuck that shit. My blessing can wait.

So:

Dear Period:
I'd appreciate it if you'd stop being a stingy biatch. This isn't about you, it's about me and my sanity. Maybe it's your fault I have a DEEP NEED for a stick of butter rolled in salt and dark chocolate, but because of your tardiness, I'm thinking it's some strange "baby craving" like pickles dipped in strawberry ice cream. Sure, sure, they'd be cute kids. So fucking cute I'd like to wait til I'm ready for such INTENSE CUTENESS.

I'm not ready to gain weight in my earlobes. I'm not ready to buy small things or replace all of my DVD'S with Pixar movies. I'm not ready to do the mommy and me thing, or try canned baby food to see if the chicken flavor really tastes like chicken. I'm not ready to change my voice to a different octave for 8hours out of my day for maximum baby communication and I'm certainly not ready to stop cussing like a sailor or having the beautiful ability to be a tad selfish. I'm also not ready to use the phrase, "I'd throw myself in front of a bus for you." and that's something I'd definitely say to my kids, when I have them. My Dad says it to me and it's highly affective on a scale of 1-10 of How Much Do You Love Me?

And P.S.
I'm still mad at you for coming that one time when I had to wear a white leotard on stage, so if you could be a bit more courteous with your arrival, it'd be appreciated.

Sincerely yours, truly and anxiously,

Chelsea Talks Smack