The diapers I shat in 30-odd years ago* are still out there in a landfill somewhere, daintily rotting; I have not achieved anything to justify my continued taste for natural resources (get in my face, cool, crisp tapwater). In short, there is not enough time between one’s own contamination and abuse of Earth and the desire to push out a baby-friend for the destruction to settle. No time for the harsh to mellow before the cycle repeats again.
Consume, take, eat, abuse. And this is the way the world will end.
What is it about babies? They can’t talk about the good books they are reading, they can’t recommend any veggie restaurants, they can’t spot you on the bench press, they will shit on your carpet without entertaining you first (only witty alcoholics may shit on my carpet). In short, they don’t earn their keep. But the chubby elbows!
Why a baby?
Because someone has to keep the world populated with asshole vegans?
Because my baby will have to beat up stupider, more bro-like babies?
Because it will be a chance to make up for everything bad that went wrong when I was young? I can have a second childhood?
Because the world needs more (hope-to-god) good citizens?
Because it will be like meeting my husband when he was a baby? And me?
And I might feel hopeful?
Because the fuzzy baby-afro?
Because my ovaries will soon turn to vampire dust and I hate to be thwarted?
*psych! My parents were poor and used cloth diapers (<-now trendy and for rich people)