Top Ten Ways To Guarantee You’ll Die of a Stab Wound

1.  Ask me, “So, when are you and Ben going to start a family?”

2.  Respond with, “You’re pregnant!” when I say, “I have good news!”

<insert eight other iterations of that same idea here>

Here’s the thing, asking a lady about her sex life?  That shit is inappropriate.  Asking people about their family plans?  That shit is banal.  When you ask me when/if I’m going to procreate you have managed to be simultaneously salacious and pedestrian, and while that is actually a sort of impressive feat, I’m still irritated.  If you want to talk about sex I am totally down with that.*  But if you want to talk about the current occupancy rate of my uterus I’m going to be fantasizing about stabbing you while you blather on stream of consciousness style about the joy of breeding.

And while we’re on the topic of breeders…  Listen, I get it, you have a baby/toddler/child/teenager and you think that he/she is the most adorable/precocious/funny/fascinating person ever, but guess what?  I don’t.  And neither does anyone else who isn’t directly related to said offspring.  Allow me to clarify, my friends and their sweet little babies?  I’m sold.  Send me cute photos, forward me videos, tell me about what they did at lunch today.  But everyone else?  I don’t care.  I particularly don’t care when I’m at work and you’re holding me hostage in the kitchen with Tales From Parenthood, presented multi-media style courtesy of your iPhone.

So yeah, being married and in your late twenties is apparently the equivalent of wearing a giant sandwich board that says, “ASK ME ABOUT MY VAGINA AND ITS PLANS FOR THE FUTURE!”  It’s really my own fault.

*ReferenceEvery post on this blog that’s not about my imagined allergies nor my propensity towards social akwardness

P.S.  For the record, my godson is the cutest baby on Earth.  Sorry to burst your bubble receptionist lady.

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