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Editorial: Ketel One Kids by nicole wells For years now I have been telling my mother she will never, ever be a grandmother. Besides wanting to see her cry, my main reason to say such a horrible thing is because I have no desire to breed. I live in L.A. which I am done apologizing for, damn it, and yes I have been a waitress. For quite a few years actually, and through all that time I've waited on loving parents and their children who seem to think that tugging on my apron strings while I'm holding a hot meal is a fine way to win me over. I guess I thought dropping piping hot Mac n' Cheese in little Randy's lap would give our brief relationship the jump start it needed. Mommy Elsa freaked out and I just tried to reason with her, "Hey lady, I don't know how to communicate with kids! I'm trying! Can you teach me how?" I kept thinking something must be wrong with me. But, no longer. After smoking a lot of weed and talking to trees in city parks I've received vital information that mother nature is trying to share with us. Because of over population, our mother is desperately trying to find a way to balance herself. She's started by removing my maternal instinct. I decided to try to find it, and the first place I went was the maternity ward at Holy Cross hospital. Happy parents walked around me as I gazed at little bundles of joy. I asked the nurse if I could hold one of the babies. "No, I am not a relative, I'm just looking for my maternal instinct. Can you help me?" Security promptly escorted me out. She is obviously not a mother. Okay, Plan B. I wore a pregnancy pad underneath my clothes which ended up provoking friends and peers to violence. "Whatcha got there huh?" Punch. "How's that feel?" Kick. Through my tears I explained what I was trying to achieve. People just gave me funny looks and pointed to the drink in my hand. I told them cranberry juice was good for the baby, and vodka was good for mommy. I left the BBQ feeling deflated. Instead of driving my car home and subjecting my womb to more violence by the turning of the steering wheel I decided to take a long walk home. Passing by busy shops and eateries I caught the stares of rude people out on the street. Maybe it was the dirty footprint across my belly, or maybe it was just the simple fact that the world can't handle a pregnant woman without a shopping bag by her side walking alone. I decided to grab a bite at a corner café. Two elderly women approached me and asked if I was okay. I told them everything about my helpful tree and my research up to this point. They told me it was my God given right to have a child, but to pretend was to be in cahoots with Satan and to "Taste my cane, bitch". Feeling really out of place I decided to go back to the park and tell off that fucking tree. How dare she put me in this sort of danger? Mother nature didn't flood, burn or earthquake me. She kicked my ass with a fist and cane. Pretty confident that I could never breed because of my injuries, I clawed at the dirty tree with every ounce of energy I had left. The cops showed up just as I was about to do some major damage to a leaf, thankfully they stopped me and gave me a ride to a place to stay for the night. I asked if the homeless man pissing on the bitch I tried to break could come too, but they said they had just given him a jay walking ticket earlier and didn't want to come across as cold. Strapped into my new home and grateful to have that damn belly off I look back now on how my experiment would've been better off had I just kept drinking at the BBQ. People don't feel pain when they're drunk and they get very loving. That was it. That was the key to unlocking the maternal love for my unborn child. From now on and as soon as I get out of this place I'm going to start babysitting completely loaded. I'm going to be the best babysitter ever. Kids will love me, I will love them through daddy's liquor cabinet. Conclusion: Vodka makes kids worthwhile. |
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