Me: It’s probably not possible that if you put a bunch of monkeys in a room with typewriters, that eventually one of them would pop off Hamlet. The amount of time it would take for that to happen, probability wise, is actually much longer than the age of the universe.
Short bit later, after discussing the concept of negative gravity…
Friend 1: Can we please talk about kittens or something now?
Friend 2: Or we could talk about anti-kittens.
Me: Who knows, somewhere, anti kittens could exist.
Friend 1: And somewhere out there, Anti-monkeys could be typing out Anti-Hamlet.
[Friend 1 briefly leaves the table.]
Me: [shouting after friend] It would take them just as long!
Friend 2: I was going to say…
Have you ever reached that point where you’re so consumed by a book that literally nothing else matters anymore and all you want to do is read and not study or do anything productive because none of it matters anymore because THIS BOOK
And then I begin to hermit.
Through all the trials and tribulations I have already experienced since this crossing the threshold of preliminary “real-personhood”, few things have irritated me more than…
Fetuses in my newsfeed.
Yes. Fetuses, in, my, newsfeed.
I feel like an old man Scrooge when I say this, but I have seen enough ultrasound pictures in my newsfeed to know what a baby looks like before it actually a fully formed baby, I really don’t need to see yours.
"But my baby is special, it’s my baby. I just want to share. "
Aww, how cute. Your baby, encased inside of the dark, musty depths of your engorged uterus, which looks the same as all the other babies also coincidentally adorning my newsfeed.
"I’m just cherishing my moment."
Your moment, not my moment. Normally, I prefer the show to the tell, but this is not one of those times.
Does that mean you’re going to take pictures of that and spam my newsfeed with images of your child’s rupturing embryonic sack? Can you please not? I took a class called Women’s Reproductive History, and I have seen more than enough of that.
So many of your moments are causing my ovaries to have a moment. A moment where in their hormone induced frenzy (caused by a combination of my prime age, and the constant images posted on facebook, live from inside your uterus) they must be bound in silence and forced to the deepest depths of the earth, where they must remain until the time at which I decide that children seem like a good idea.
Don’t get me wrong. Babies are great and I am happy for you. I have nothing against the kid his/herself. And I’m sure you will be a delightful parent, chronicling your child’s entire life on facebook, literally from the beginning. Poor thing never had a chance at privacy.
How about I say hello to the kid when it is actually here.
Or I could say something like “Aww, I remember back when you had a tail and resembled a squid in a bucket! They grow up so fast.”