You’d Think They’d Want to Know If I’m Pregnant Before They Kill The Guy

Okay, so that title is actual words that I accidentally spoke out loud at a completely inappropriate time. In the gas station. Really, really out loud. Here’s what happened:

I made this “without thinking” kind of decision way back in college. When most people do something reckless in college without thinking it through all the way, somebody becomes a baby mamma. Luckily, I’m such a nerd that when I did something in college without thinking, it was donating blood on the blood mobile. And the afterthought was to say, “Sure, go ahead, register me on the bone marrow registry list.”

Twenty-mumble-mumble years later, I got the call. I’m a match for a man who needs my bone marrow. My current line of reasoning is pity for the poor man who receives my bone marrow, but then I also start to think, “Suck it, cancer patient, you are about to be filled to the brim with the sideshow carnival that is my bone marrow.”

Right off the bat, the worst news was that I have to stop drinking until the donation. It was a close call, because that man was ALMOST gonna die. Oh stop, you know I don’t love cheap merlot more than a fellow human being. I gave up the drinking. Then I found out that if I got pregnant, I couldn’t donate. Let me tell you that I’ve thought it through completely and the death of another human being might not be the absolute worst thing to come out of this scenario if I were pregnant. More to the point, if I were pregnant, there would be a dead man lying around, and trust me, it wouldn’t be the cancer patient.

Luckily, I have enough self-control to stop drinking and I’m not pregnant. The process by which doctors will suck the squish out of my bones is a go.

Then I learned that they have to kill off all his bone marrow before he can get any of mine, and they’re going to start that on Friday. And on the following Tuesday, I have to go pee on something and prove I’m not pregnant. Something weird occurred to me as I was talking to my mom about this whole thing:

“Wouldn’t you think they’d want to make sure I’m not pregnant before the start killing the guy?” I asked. Unfortunately, I have no filter, and I was standing in line in the gas station when I said those words all together. No, I wasn’t buying wine. I already said I had self-control.

Let’s just say, when you spit all those words out one right after another, people stare. It was really weird. They don’t even pretend that they’re not staring. They just look and look and look. I also learned there’s really no good way to explain why you just said all that, so I blurted out, “I really hope they catch the guy who did it,” and bolted from the gas station.

YOLOs of the Future

UPDATE: From the comments section, I discovered this morning that the great readers of my blog are really, really smart, because almost no one knew what YOLO stands for. It’s sad, but this post somehow actually makes MORE sense if you do know, so it stands for “You Only Live Once.” I’m sorry for having to tell you that.

For those of you who don’t spend enough time on the internet to know, there’s this concept called YOLO. I was really disappointed to find out it has nothing to do with low-fat frozen yogurt. It sounds like it should. And as much as people use the term YOLO, that yogurt should taste awesome.

Sadly for us dessert fans, YOLO is not only not a yogurt, it’s this asinine slogan that young people with zero responsibilities and zero self-respect use to justify doing stupid stuff, like meth. Or sex with a stranger in the JC Penney fitting rooms. Or meth. People have taken to tossing out the phrase YOLO like it’s the answer to everything, like there are hermits freezing in mountaintop caves in the Himalayas right this very minute just hoping for some lost soul to come ask them what the meaning of life is so they can shrug their shoulders and say, “YOLO.”

You wanna YOLO, my barely post-pubescent philosopher? Try the military. Try only living once by going to college, getting a degree, and curing something that rages uncontrollably throughout the worst regions of Africa. How about you YOLO your ass off by taking a bullet for a pregnant woman in a gas station robbery?

I do have some insight into what your future self would like you to know about YOLO: gonorrhea is permanent. (I’m really insanely proud that I had to spell check “gonorrhea” because I just don’t use the word often enough to know how to spell it right the first time.) After your 18th birthday, most arrest records are permanent, too. So are paternity test results. Keep that in mind.

Oh my gosh, she’s holding the pee end of that stick. How’s that for YOLO?