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July 31, 2008


I love babies. I hope to breed one day myself. Hence, when a pregnant woman sits down next to me on the bus, I say, “Ooooh, when are you due?”


And the woman goes, “Oh, I’m not pregnant.”


Shit. I just called her fat. I have been mistaken for pregnant before, and it ain’t a good feeling [I was 12 at the time, so I don’t understand why the lady at the mall advised I buy extra links for my new watch to "compensate for the bloating wrist as the baby grows" inside me. Or do I judge too harshly? Maybe it was my fault, for I must have looked the spitting image of a child bride in my tear-away Adidas windpants and camouflage Bubba Gump T-shirt. That get-up sure says BP to me! (BP = Baby Prostitute)].


But then, like the hand of God coming down from the clouds to scoop me from awkwardness, the woman continues, “Nah, I’m not pregnant. This is my tumor.”


And she lifts her shirt, and it looks like there is a lumpy boulder baby living under her belly skin.


Note, I say I was saved from awkwardness because in my mind:


Not really pregnant, actually fat > Not really pregnant, actually tumor.


The former is more offensive because girls are cool about mistaking a fetus mound for a tumor the size of my head (or your head!), but mix-up a little excess fat for the supposed fetus mound? HOW DARE WE! KINDLY take your hand off my leftover babyweight from my previous baby, which settles in such a way that it gives the illusion of new baby—there are no babies to be found here!


Man, talk about needing an abortion. Touchy subject, I’m well aware. I watch the news, you know. Some people are all like, “Well I only think it’s OK to get it aborted if the woman was raped.”


What about tumor babies? The lady on the bus sure as hell didn’t want that thing. She could have been on her merry way home from work,  paused a little too long in that dark alley -- long enough for that giant tumor in a trenchcoat to come up behind her and rape her -- and now, she can't help being with child.


So cut her some slack. Next time you see a pregnant woman, ask her, “Oooh, when’s the excision?"