Hey guyyyss, how was your week? Mine was pretty much the usual: plagiarised coursework, sexual harassment, the conception of a baby. Oh yeah, no joke, another girl in my year has chosen to swell up like a giant zit or an old man's head cyst and pop out a sprog. CRAYZEEE. Shows how fickle fashion is doesn’t it? I mean, last month everyone was totally into instagramming nude shots of themselves and boasting about how much M-Kat they'd rubbed on their gums, but suddenly it’s strictly all about babies. Babies are the new iPhones. Which is bad news for me, because I’d take hours of Siri’s monotone drone over a screaming, shitting, pelvic-floor-destroying brat any day of the week. Thank god the school crèche is in another building (yes, we really do have one).
Don’t foetuses’ spinal cords look creepy as shit? Reptile-baby.
We're still at school. If the landlord at the local hadn't read so much Nabokov, we wouldn't be able to get drunk in public. We’re obviously not mature enough to grow a whole new person inside our crisp-filled bellies. Seriously girl, you’ve got three weeks to get that fucker sucked out and get your life back on track! You can do it! I believe in you! Hopefully our head teacher won't do what the one at my old school did, and PAY this girl not to have an abortion, under the guise of “financial assistance”. Catholics, eh? Gotta love their dedication to the game.
It’s not all bad though, my step-brother’s ex dropped out of school to have a baby, and she’s been in ZOO magazine (#milfmonday)!
But wait. Maybe I’m jealous of the teen baby mamma. Sure, I’m hardly envious of the squatter in her womb (I’d have given it its eviction notice weeks ago), but at least her sprog-father is in the picture. I know this because his profile picture on Facebook is the two of them together with the words “tru luv forever” photoshopped into the corner.
Of course this has nothing to do with the fact that my own boyfriend has moved 250 miles away to pursue what my mother calls “a degree in colouring in”, or the two full days I've subsequently spent laying in bed watching Simpsons re-runs and eating pity-salad. What’s your fucking point? Get off my case, Mum! *Slams bedroom door*
Weirdly enough, the rest of the year group are similarly disinterested in teen baby mamma’s plight. Everyone’s more excited about the school social next week. Is there some kind of inoculation against Rohypnol you can get? Because the Year 12 girls are seriously going to need it. As I type this, I can see two people performing what looks like rudimentary foreplay on one of the common room sofas.
I dread to think how many of us will have conceived our own kids by the end of the year. Teachers, if by some bizarre accident you are reading this, I beg of you one thing alone: start loading every Pot Noodle the canteen sells with a butt-load of microgynon. Please. For me?
Previously: Teenage Love Smells Like Crisps