Not good at anything? Forge a future with pregnancy!

So you've tried everything: community college, American Idol, club drugs -- all of which were met with little to no success (stay hydrated next time!). You're not good at anything. You fucking suck. You're the idiot granny on the Price is Right who can't make it off of contestants row because she refuses to bid $1 when the Marine, Housewife, and College student have already clearly overbid. You were born with less talent than a high school talent show. But that's okay.

You have a vagina.

And as long as you have a vagina you can get boys to like you. Or so you think. After he tells you everything you want to hear ("You're hot," "I'm clean") you let him pound you like a foster child placed in the wrong home. You'll close your eyes and smile at the romantic images that run through your head: holding hands, sharing a snow cone, cuddling by the fireplace, kissing him at your wedding while everybody stands up and claps for your happiness. You'll drown out the squishy sex-noises and make yourself hear the song "Collide," thereby making your fantasy a montage. You won't realize that "Collide" is a breakup song because it sounds good with trite, movie imagery and because you're fucking stupid.

And then he pulls out late. At first you're upset. You say "Omigod!" a lot and try to douche out the rogue seed with a warm bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper that's usually reserved for visits from grandma and her diabetes. Your montage is replaced with disgusting images of Maury Povich and sassy fat black women in the audience who yell, "Girl if I wuz yo momma I'd done smack you upside yo head by now," which will undoubtedly be met with applause from other audience members who are all living their lives soooooo much better than you are.

But you calm down soon. Maybe a baby isn't a bad thing. You can name it something biblical, like Jedediah, or you can be one of those annoying women who rattle off first and middle names at the same time, like Jason Taylor or Illegitimate Child. You start to look forward to your pregnancy. All that time you spent looking for love can now be spent thinking of ways you can use your child to make you feel good about yourself. Your stomach starts to bulge. It becomes a topic of conversation with preggo fetishists and jealous mothers who wish they could go back to the days when their children were cute and malleable. As the bulge grows larger you realize that the world has shifted from its heliocentric orbit and now revolves around you. Suddenly you have friends, many of whom are Marine girlfriends and hope to be well on their way to your position before Travis is shipped off to die for his country. Jealous of all the attention you're getting, the baby's father says he wants to be a man and take care of his child. You push him away and sue for child support because you're an attention-hog.

The child is born a bastard. You name it Michael Thomas. Your attention level is at an all time high right now. You dress Michael Thomas up in cute shit that makes other women gush. You make more friends because Michael Thomas is just so fucking adorable.

But then he starts to grow. The compliments stop and Michael Thomas is quickly becoming his father. Bills pile up and the clerical job you earned with pity isn't cutting it. But, for some fucking reason, somebody still wants to date you. This guy is convinced that you're his better half, even though he has a decent job and a 401k. Did I mention that he just adores little Michael Thomas? He calls him "Little guy" a lot and tells you that he can't wait to play catch with him and teach him how to fish and become a good man.


There is no explanation for this shit. Maybe he grew up in a house full of females and wants to be the positive male role model that his father never got to be. Maybe he wants a family he can slay when the demons finally decide to possess him. It doesn't matter. He'll marry you on one condition: you stay at home and be a full time mom. Instead of becoming dollar signs, your eyes become sperm swimmers. Here is a man who will let you leech off of him as long as you indulge his fucking Jerry Maguire and provide him with little Jonathan Lipnicki's that he can love and be annoyed by and blame later on down the road when you start to develop marital problems.

Until then, the road is paved with umbilical cords and placentas. Whenever Michael Thomas starts to get old, you'll have another, and so on, hence completing your journey from dumb bitch to dumb married bitch with annoying children.

If you ever get divorced you can rent your vagina out as a bungee cord.