Idiots. I love Amanda:
“As I figured, the ad for Plan B in Tuesday’s Daily Texan would generate at least one outraged letter from a male conservo-virgin. He didn’t go so far as accuse the Texan of trying to screw his chances at marriage, but he does come very, very close.”
I expect to find advertisements in the paper; even more than usual considering the budget cuts. But the flyer found inside my Texan as I opened it flabbergasted me: a flyer that advertised not just a day-after pill, but a THREE day-after pill!
“Who knew that the sperm could slosh around in there for three days? You ruined this young man’s masturbation fantasies for at least a week, oral contraceptive manufacturers.”
That if, in the “heat of the moment,” you forget to practice safe sex, it’s OK because you have a “second chance?”
“His idea of what people do in bed is vastly different from mine. I can see it now–a nubile co-ed in the arms of a hunky frat boy on a Friday night.
“Oh honey, let’s forget the condom tonight. On Monday, I can go just wait in line for 3 hours at Planned Parenthood to get a prescription for Plan B, drive over to Walgreen’s and get it filled and then significantly reduce my chances of getting pregnant, even though I still may.” Mmmm….sexy.”
To which I’ll add: or, because I didn’t know there was such a thing as Plan B and that it was actually available if I took an entire day off work to make the drive, wait in line, fulfill the perscription, I’ll drive four hours and pay $300 for an abortion after pushing past hordes of conservatives screaming that I’m a dirty whore and throwing shit at me. Then I’ll listen to people talk about “people like me” for the rest of my life, saying I must be a hollow, evil, person who wants to kill herself because I didn’t fulfill my breeding duty.
Or maybe I won’t risk the drive (I don’t have a car or $300) and have the kid anyway, get on welfare to pay for my medical costs, try and marry the frat boy who I’m not really all that into anyway and who’d make my life and his unbearable (who’ll laugh at me cause he has a football scholarship), and instead squeeze child support out of him for the rest of his life (law willing), and take up a job at the local burger joint.
Odds are (definately not always true, but I’m going to go there), I’ll end up resenting my kid, resenting all frat boys, and kicking myself about how I’ve blown all of my potential on having a kid I could have waited to have ten years later instead.
There are women who succeed when they fall into this life-altering situation (yes, I know them), and who love their kids and can’t imagine living without them. But for every one of those, there are three or four more who are just like a buddy of mine (who was always more brilliant than me) working at Walmart after having married a slack-ass of a kid who’s unemployed. Women with this amazing potential, with these incredible dreams, who got caught in the “it’s a life” trap, and forgot about their own lives.
I despise being told I have to sacrifice all that I am in order to flush my body of a handful of cells with the self-consciousness of a pancreas.