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Must you protest in such adolescent fashion each time you drop an egg? I respect your right to sigh in relief, but this coupling of tequila hangovers with first-trimesterish nausea is getting plenty old.

I get it. You are afraid. Afraid that I might mistake the slight rise in body temperature for feverish passion and submit to my primal lure, thus birthing more unfortunate souls. Of course, it would take quite the Kamasutra nerd to circumnavigate a belly ballooning to the capacity of two full-term pregnancies, no thanks to your progesterone-pumping comrades. Not to mention, my ubiquitous perfume of ginger-garlic and little boy farts is all the contraception I need.

On the other hand, despite the fear you might feel for my un-conceived offspring, admit it — you rather enjoyed your sabbaticals while I was baking. Statistically speaking, we do have many moons to curse before your retirement benefits kick in. With all this literal kinship we’ve shared, I’m sure I can count on several “wish you were here, xoxo” postcards delivered in hot flashes. Until then, how about you tone down that drama till it’s time for the red curtains?

Yours Hormonally,
Null Pointer

P.S. Ok, so it doesn’t take a nerd, per say. I too have seen the film Munich and smacked my head at the obvious solution.

Edited to add: apparently “retirement” is my word for the day. figures.

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