In case you got here via that childfree site...
There are some points I'd like to clarify:
- Charlie was born two days shy of 30 weeks, not 28. It may not seem to make a big difference, but it does. I promise it would if it were a kid you cared about in that isolette, if there are any kids you care about. (Note that I am carefully avoiding making that assumption, for fear of giving insult where none is intended.)
- I haven't said anything about his needing to be on "assisted ventilation for at least the next 30 days." I don't even know what that might be, or how long he'd be on it if I could figure out what the fucking fuck it is.
- Charlie is neither pear-sized nor pear-shaped. He is closer in weight to sixteen sticks of butter, minus a couple of tablespoons, and closer in mass to a supermarket rotisserie chicken. Somebody check me here — maybe a canned ham instead? Now I am imagining my baby studded attractively with cloves, festooned with a pineapple slice, in accordance with the garish but helpful SERVING SUGGESTION printed right on the can. I got your modest proposal right here.
- Hey, so, um, why exactly are you concerned with my reproductive efforts?
- No, really, I mean it: why? I haven't even had a chance to become a bad parent yet.
- If you're happy and secure in your own reproductive choices, why are you wasting your time, your energy, and your valuable AOL minutes eavesdropping on infertiles?
- Because we're not the problem. I swear it. The kid kicking the back of your first-class airline seat ain't mine, after all.
- Oh, and "hysterical breeder wanna be" lacks pizzazz. Next time please consider turkey-baster fucking, dumbfuck breeder cunt. (You gotta admit it sings.)