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Knocked Up, Part One: F**k!

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So basically here’s the story:


I was an immature, somewhat naive twenty-seven-year-old. I had just quit my job from hell (sales) and had gotten a pretty killer job. I was happy. I was flying high; it was the calm before the storm.


During my second week, I decided to pick up some pregnancy tests on a lunch trip to Wal-Mart. I had made it a habit of taking pregnancy tests every couple of months because I have a health condition that can cause infertility and irregular periods. Being sexually active, I tried to take a pregnancy test now and again, since I wasn’t always getting my monthly “all-clear” (a.k.a. menstruation), just to make sure.


So on the third day of my second week of my new job, in the late afternoon, I took the infamous first response box down the hall to the bathroom, unwrapped the shiny white wrapper, and well, did the deed. Confident that I wasn’t pregnant, my mind drifted to thoughts of how awesome my new job was, and how glad I was that I’d waited for such a great opportunity instead of accepting a less lucrative offer. I glanced down at the pee stick and my heart dropped into the toilet bowl. Holy fucking shit, hell, fuck. There were two lines. Two fucking condescending pink little lines. I was f-ing pregnant! How did this happen?


(How it happened was probably covered in your middle school health class, and therefore I will not go into that topic at this time. If you have questions, or the fundamentalists in your town got all that unholy sex promotion banned from your middle school, you can learn more here.)


How: you’ve probably got that covered, but the “when” was glaringly obvious. Christmas night, the last time I had gotten frisky with my boyfriend of five years. My heart was racing. My head was spinning. I started to panic. How could this happen to me? I was supposed to be infertile! I never wanted kids! I had decided years ago, that I was too emotionally insane to properly care for a child. I could barely care for my exuberant pit bull. Shit. Shit. Shit.


I got in my car and raced home to tell my man. The whole way, I talked myself into an abortion. I had just gotten an awesome job, finally making a decent salary. With our combined salaries, my boyfriend and I could afford to buy a nicer home together and maybe even take a real vacation! A vacation somewhere that requires air travel and a passport! Now all of that would be ruined. An abortion was my only hope at salvaging my life. I’d heard it time and time again: babies suck all of your energy and free time, and they poop a lot. Hell no, I wasn’t letting that happen to me now.


When I got home, I told my boyfriend the bad news, and despite his suggestion that it might not be as bad as I was making it sound, I made my first appointment at Planned Parenthood.

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