Writing these days has proven to be a chore. The stresses and strains of having to pretend you’re a mature grownup have proven to be very taxing even for my Oscar-worthy acting skills. Things crop up, deadlines, pressures to perform and timelines to be met and before you know it, you’re stumbling into bed at 10pm, waiting to do it all over again the next day.
I don’t have time to search my favourite internet haunts for pictures and stories that will scour away the remainder of my soul. No time to listen to podcasts that push the boundaries of the shreds of decency that stubbornly cling onto my person. I don’t even have time for looking up what scenes from my favourite pornstars are up to.
I also can’t spare the energy to hate on the abominations that infests our lands that are children. They’ve been relegated to ants and herpes; an evil that I just have to learn to live with (not that I have herpes, at least that wasn’t the case last time I checked. So ladies, the ride is still open for business, OH YEAH!) No longer do I dream of creative ways of turning them into finger food. I’m too busy dreaming of how much sleep I’d love to get. Fantasies of kids as strength test dummies for prosthetic limbs have to be set aside for that fictional off day that is yet to arrive. I can no longer smile as I drift off to sleep because I don’t craft new ways of turning into a profitable competition the immense pleasure of dropping those unhuman monstrosities into active volcanoes.
If nothing else, this is what I will miss most as the responsible facade I put up becomes a reality, that more infants will be birthed and not immediately turned into finger food. Because I’ll have to live with the knowledge that if the world had given me more time, a baby-free utopia would have been ours to enjoy.