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Another school year, another semester condensed into 48-hours-worth of just enough studying to get a 3.0. Time to pick up those brain cells out of the textbook, and back to where they feel more at ease- the bottom of a Woodford bottle and a night out on the town.
Head’s throbbing, and all sorts of smells are making your taste buds pungent. The serendipity of your pre-dawn walk from an unfamiliar bed is interrupted from a text coming from a strange number.
“Had a great time last night =)”
31 missed calls, 8 voicemails, and 16 “we need to talk” texts later, you finally respond to the same anonymous number from earlier, if only to get this obvious nutjob off your back. From experience, clingers of the Stage 5 variety require a well-thought out, articulate message in response.
Strange number: “I’m late.”
Haven’t slept. Just more drinking. Followed by drunken, paranoid pacing. Followed by more drinking. Followed by looking up at the mirror and screaming, “How could you be so stupid?”
Your announcement at chapter regarding your dilemma is met with scoffs of disbelief.
“We assumed you were terrible with girls.”
Realize that when you had previously asserted that you were pro-life, you assumed everyone knew that you clearly weren’t talking about yourself. How was that implicit condition not obvious?
Begin to think of the plus-side of having a kid. For starters, it’ll give you an excuse to dust off the ol’ mitt for a father-son game of catch.
Start shooting around baby names in your head. Jonathan is nice. Elliot’s decent for a chick. Perry has an authoritative ring to it. Jan Eetor remains a possibility if you want the little turd to have an exotic twist to it.
Realize the only potential baby names you’ve mustered were inspired by characters on Scrubs. Consequently, you conclude that at this point in your life, you and fatherhood should never go together.
The prenatal optimism continues to fade during your weekly trip to the grocery store. One of the cashiers in the poultry aisle is emptying several shelves worth of product. After asking what the cashier is doing, he responds, “these eggs are expired and rotting. They’re no good anymore, and need to be thrown out.”
Some guys have all the luck.
Remind yourself to stay rational. Force yourself to remember that children are a blessing from God, that if a new baby in your life is the most depressing thing you’ve ever encountered, that you’ve had a pretty charmed life. You are not a victim. It could be so much worse. Like it or not, it is your duty to be in this kid’s life.
Say your goodbyes. Give away your Kenny Loggins collection. Write NO HOPE in blood across your bedroom wall.
Tearfully look down from the fraternity rooftop at the traffic below. Just as you’re about to make the fatal plunge, your iPhone alerts you that you have a new text message, which you open only for, I don’t know, plot continuity sake.
Strange number: “It came.”
Oh, thank God. Ordeal = over. Number = deleted.
With that weight off your back, time to go out and make the same fucking mistakes you committed 20 days prior.
2 months later
Find a “Happy Father’s Day!” letter in the mail. Begrudgingly walk to the fraternity rooftop.