My house (a.k.a. Squallyoaks). I can’t have babies here.
I’ve had an epiphany. I think it came somewhere between turning twenty one and buying my first set of tableware. I can’t be sure. But what I’ve come to realize is that all of this—the drugs, the sex, the suicidal tendencies—this isn’t who I really am. I mean like deep down or whatever. Me, I’m destined for greatness. No really, I am. My mother even said so. Well, she hasn’t said it in a while, but I know somewhere in her heart she still believes it.
But basically what this whole enlightenment epiphany thing has taught me is that now is the time to make a change. Goodbye hard drugs. Goodbye mindless sex with Mexican bus boys in back alleys. Goodbye eating out of garbage bins. I’m a changed woman. From here on out I’m going to devote the remainder of my existence to cooking, cleaning, making babies, having slow, polite sex, and wearing flat, practical shoes. The future looks bright.
This epiphany didn’t happen all at once, by the way. It’s been a gradual decline. At first it was subtle changes, like using garbage cans rather than the floor, learning how to use a washing machine, and not wanting to fuck anything with a penis and a beard. It got more serious when I found myself wanting to kidnap infants on the street, and searching through my boyfriend’s room for pictures of him as a child, trying to visualize what our hypothetical offspring would look like. Once I even found myself standing in front of the mirror after a greasy fry-up, gazing admiringly at my protruding stomach and drifting into sweet daydreams of my future life as a pregnant mother. Before I know it I’m going to be jerking off to Better Home and Gardens.
There is one thing that worries me about my new life as a domestic goddess, however, and that’s my complete and utter incompetence when it comes to doing, well… everything. How can I raise a family when I, myself, still survive on steady diet of bin food and MDMA, make an income of only £80 a week, and live in a squat where the room next door to me is a homosexual, ketamine-fueled love dungeon of sin and debauchery? Shit man. I need to sort my life out.
So, is this whole pseudo enlightenment bullshit all just a phase? In a week will I come to my senses and realize that normal life just isn’t for me? My boyfriend seems to think I’ll get over it. Still, I’ve noticed he’s been more cautious than ever recently about remembering to wear a condom…
Some more reasons why getting preggo is probably not a good idea:
3. We have parties and smash walls.
4. The basement looks like a crack den.
5. We play loud music.
6. We pull things that look like this out of our drains. I think this one was breathing.