2003-09-01

Everytime I go on Backstage West's website, I am tempted by the ad about donating your eggs. I see these dollar signs in my head. Then I think about how my baby will be out there somewhere and someone else will have it and I'll never see my baby (that gets me especially upset because of those Johnson & Johnson "A baby changes everything" commercials. Every time I see one, I start bawling. Can biological clocks tick this early? Cause I keep having these baby-craving moments where I asloutely. Must. Have. Baby. This. Second. It's crazy of me. I am nowhere near a good time for motherhood and I don't think I'm old enough, really. I was never an actual teenager. If I don't stop getting ahead of myself, I'm not going to be an actual twenty-something either... Oh yeah, the eggs).

Anyway, I decide I will NOT donate the eggs- EVER! Then those money signs light up all over again. Then I have this sick and twisted movie that plays in my head where I'm a sinfully gorgeous, Kim Catrall-esque forty-something. I'm at the gym, working on my gluts or pecks or... I have no idea what those workout terms mean, but they make me sound healthy, right? Anyway, a young and eager trainer, fresh out of high school, comes to me (I see Heath Ledger), showing me the right way to do ass-lifting exercises or whatever. Of course, all this is a shameless excuse to touch my ass. Both of us being at our sexual peaks, it only makes sense that we are quickly embroiled in this violently passionate love affair. This goes on for a month or something. One night, basking in the afterglow, we talk about our lives. He tells me how he was the product of egg donation to wealthy parents and he's searching for his mother. All he knows for sure is that she had curly hair and watched too much Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Suddenly, the room spins! I suddenly know, beyond all doubt, that I have been banging my former egg all this time! We! Are! Devastated! After hours of lamenting and a tear-soaked reunion, we decide the only thing to do is kill ourselves. Having both read Oedipus, we decide the proper thing is to poke our eyes repeatedly with a broach. (It only blinded him, but we feel the action should be repeated until death is achieved.) We only have one broach, so we have to take turns. After about three hours, we finally die from blood loss.

And that is why I am never donating my eggs- EVER!