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838. Or, Happy Valentine's Day.

Preface:

Things always happen for a reason. Always. Everything is exactly how it should be. Always.

I tend to curse myself by only speaking. For years.

The Real Entry:

This morning I got home at about 9:30 am, walked into my bedroom to find a giant pile of cat puke and a half dozen red roses from my dad. [Everyone loves me!] But, I'm not going to write about love, and I'm not going to make this abstract. I'm not going to make this pretty or paint it with sugar so it's easier for you to swallow.

All in all, today was a decent day. I got an email that made me smile, I got flowers, I got music (much props to this girl), I got to work on time, and work didn't suck too badly.

I guess maybe I should come to the point, because I'm obviously putting it off because that's what I do, delay the inevitable, procrastinate...

Last night I had my standing Friday night "date", and I use the term loosely. We're laying in bed talking, I say, "Man. I must be ovulating. My sex drive is really high." The talking stops, one thing leads to another, he climbs off of me, and there's something missing.

Something key.

The condom.

It fell off.

Immediately, he's SHIT SHIT SHIT, FUCK FUCK FUCK. I walk into the bathroom to fish out the evidence, come back, he's got his head in his hands, and I'm just numb. Dumb founded. I lay down on the bed and tell him everything will be fine. It has to be. [See: Preface.]

And so I start taking responsibility. I start saying I'll take care of it. I'll do something, emergency contraception, abortion, whatever. Don't worry. It's fine. I'm not bringing a child into this world who will have a father that doesn't want it. Blah blah blah.

And I sit staring at the ceiling.

I say, "Honey. I'll be honest. I don't want to. I don't. I'm sorry. I know this is my emotional self talking, without any logic, without any thought as to financial issues, and I'm pretty sure I'm not going to get pregnant, but I don't want to. I don't want to kill it, I don't think I can."

He says, "Fuck."

And so this morning I call Planned Parenthood. Closed. I call my health care provider. On hold. Eternity.

I sit. I've got no one to call. That's why this is here. I feel ashamed. I feel like it's my fault, and that it's wrong for me to not want what he wants, as though I'm taking the decision away from him. And I wonder, what if? What IF I AM?

Then I beat myself up for not taking the mature route and just doing it and getting it over with.

Fuck is right.

Edited @ 8:02 am, February 15 - I pick up the morning after pill tonight.

9:47 p.m. - 2004-02-14

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