Is Your Messiah Fully Resurrected? Pt.1
Kris called me and said, “Robin’s water broke.” She was in Mississippi at the time, and then I went to the hospital. Later I learned more about the female human body than any man should [dilated, centimeters, and pumps]. A man should only know the female body during special occasions like sex when it comes to the do’s and do-not-do’s, because any more than that would take any allure that is “woman” away. For instance, take Dr. Drew from MTV’s Love Lines, this man knows all there is to know about sex, and yet when he speaks on the subject he’s completely disinterested, as if talking about sex was equivalent to my Cingular phone manual.
As I was looking for Robin’s room, I felt this undying need to tell every helpful nurse [who was hot] that it wasn’t mine. Pre-emptive strike comments to: congratulations or weird interracial or baby wedlock looks, because her name so didn’t match whatever mine would probably be. I sat in the room, which looked better than most hotels that I’ve been accustomed to, with Robin and her mother, and all I could think of was Tom’s mantra: Don’t have kids, Don’t have kids, Don’t have kids. We watched “Everyday Italian,” something that Kris turned me onto because she thought that I would think that the host was hot and—she is. And then we listened to Charlie’s heartbeat—which sounded amazingly like house music.
That was two Friday’s ago. Kris came in Sunday. I saw him Monday, and then it was a few visits with the doctor to make sure all things were in order. I sat in the waiting room with Tom and we both stared at the sign that read: My Breast Friend: A Mother’s Guide to Breast Feeding. Note to Reader: It is a real pamphlet and not me just being all witty. He looked at me and said rule number two [which means don’t have kids]. But I'm sure he is re-evaluating that rule. I don't blame him though, the idea of breast, sexual icon, to breast, milk tap, is a little bit hard to swallow [pun intended].
As I was looking for Robin’s room, I felt this undying need to tell every helpful nurse [who was hot] that it wasn’t mine. Pre-emptive strike comments to: congratulations or weird interracial or baby wedlock looks, because her name so didn’t match whatever mine would probably be. I sat in the room, which looked better than most hotels that I’ve been accustomed to, with Robin and her mother, and all I could think of was Tom’s mantra: Don’t have kids, Don’t have kids, Don’t have kids. We watched “Everyday Italian,” something that Kris turned me onto because she thought that I would think that the host was hot and—she is. And then we listened to Charlie’s heartbeat—which sounded amazingly like house music.
That was two Friday’s ago. Kris came in Sunday. I saw him Monday, and then it was a few visits with the doctor to make sure all things were in order. I sat in the waiting room with Tom and we both stared at the sign that read: My Breast Friend: A Mother’s Guide to Breast Feeding. Note to Reader: It is a real pamphlet and not me just being all witty. He looked at me and said rule number two [which means don’t have kids]. But I'm sure he is re-evaluating that rule. I don't blame him though, the idea of breast, sexual icon, to breast, milk tap, is a little bit hard to swallow [pun intended].
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on Sunday, March 27 at 8:08 PM.
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