*
Shae needs to know what I suspect. Hayley? Is this why I had the dream of Babar and a little raven-curled dumpling cradled against me? Was my body telling me something?
Career, career, school, school, degree, job, money, support. FATHER.
Oh, good god, my FATHER.
Nearly positive a "Dad, Mom? I'm pregnant," will evoke a screaming match, insults on my virtue (it's not as though he hasn't tossed the word "whore" around at me before), possible punches, most definitely throwing of things. Mother will weep. I'll be disowned, thrown out, told never to return. It will be an awful rain of fury-soaked words ready to flare like a kerosene lamp.
And a month later, they will realize that since I'm their only child, this is their only shot at grandchildren.
Oh, god, oh god.
A stick to piss on purchased today, sneaky CVS aisle dodging, eyes open for anyone I knew, my mother knew (small town politics, gossip like FIRE); got a dirty look from a middle-aged woman waiting for a prescription at the pharmacy counter. Fuck you, you haggard old bitch. Just because your cunt is saggy, drooping, dry, and barren, you assume you know the whole story and can judge me. Just because my tits have swollen to the size of watermelons and mens' T-shirts can't hide that fact (and your tiny little mosquito bites are somehow managing to feel the effects of gravity, despite their non-mass) doesn't mean you're some wise old woman, weathered in the ways of the world, and ready to spew advice.
Coward I am, I avoided her eye. Should've stuck my tongue out like a petulant child, and told her I was fifteen.
Shae needs to know what I suspect. Hayley? Is this why I had the dream of Babar and a little raven-curled dumpling cradled against me? Was my body telling me something?
Career, career, school, school, degree, job, money, support. FATHER.
Oh, good god, my FATHER.
Nearly positive a "Dad, Mom? I'm pregnant," will evoke a screaming match, insults on my virtue (it's not as though he hasn't tossed the word "whore" around at me before), possible punches, most definitely throwing of things. Mother will weep. I'll be disowned, thrown out, told never to return. It will be an awful rain of fury-soaked words ready to flare like a kerosene lamp.
And a month later, they will realize that since I'm their only child, this is their only shot at grandchildren.
Oh, god, oh god.
A stick to piss on purchased today, sneaky CVS aisle dodging, eyes open for anyone I knew, my mother knew (small town politics, gossip like FIRE); got a dirty look from a middle-aged woman waiting for a prescription at the pharmacy counter. Fuck you, you haggard old bitch. Just because your cunt is saggy, drooping, dry, and barren, you assume you know the whole story and can judge me. Just because my tits have swollen to the size of watermelons and mens' T-shirts can't hide that fact (and your tiny little mosquito bites are somehow managing to feel the effects of gravity, despite their non-mass) doesn't mean you're some wise old woman, weathered in the ways of the world, and ready to spew advice.
Coward I am, I avoided her eye. Should've stuck my tongue out like a petulant child, and told her I was fifteen.
