My Brazilian decided to leave the sunny City of Angels and move on to more, well, European adventures. He packed up his apartment, sold the Ikea bed that I sold him several months ago, and took about 900 bags on the airplane to Germany. Or London? I don’t fucking care. Anyway, the Brazilian decided to spend the night before he left with none other than the wonderful MOI! Why? I had no effing clue. I’m fun, but I’m not SO fun that you’d want to spend your entire last night in America with me before MOVING away to another continent. It was a Sunday. I was already drunk (naturally), and he brought over a bottle of wine from the 7-11. Even after only a few dates, he knows me well.
There I was, drunk on the couch, watching E!, and squealing about the Giuliana and Bill show because the guy I made out with on Friday happened to be on it. My roommate knew all about it. My Brazilian didn’t. Not like he would have cared. He speaks good English, but sometimes I feel like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. Maybe because I talk too fast. Or too high-pitched. Especially while drunk. Maybe he’s like those animals that can only hear certain pitches. Did I just make that up?
The most likely explanation is that he really doesn’t care what I say at all, he just came over so he could sleep with me. Same reason why any guy comes over on a Sunday night. Right? I mean he certainly didn’t come over to watch Giuliana and Bill.
So we drank more. Much more. Until I decided I wanted to be horizontal, and I didn’t care if he wanted to join. The next part is a blur. Sometimes when I close my eyes I’m not sure if I’m awake or dreaming. Maybe that’s how I’m able to convince myself that things like naked Brazilians in my bed are okay.
The next day I almost called in sick to work because OMG MY BRAIN IS EXPLODING AND I’M NAKED AND I’M DEFINITELY GOING TO VOMIT ALL OVER MY KEYBOARD.
If only I HAD sick days at this god-forsaken hell hole also known as my job.
The next afternoon, I received a message via Facebook from the Brazilian.
Subject: hi from London
so just wanted to say that was great meeting you, i like your fun sweet easy-going personality and most of all, i like that you are a very truthful (is that a word?) and original person
wish you the best!
PS.: as usual… sorry about the irresponsability that day, my fault! Would you hate me forever if I asked you to take one of those day after pills?
You can’t make this shit up. He doesn’t even know if ‘truthful’ is a word. Or how to spell ‘irresponsibility.’ And, REALLY? One of those ‘day after pills’???? Great. He DIDN’T use a condom. Again. After I FREAKED OUT last time. What the hell is wrong with everyone??? Why is it MY responsibility to ask YOU to throw a rubber on your South American cock? Why is it that I always have to prevent the babies and the diseases? I’m not responsible at all! If you were worried about little children running around, don’t fucking cum in me. Or get a vasectomy. OR USE A CONDOM. Especially when I’m half in dream state and half totally wasted. It’s YOUR COCK and therefore YOUR RESPONSIBILITY if my egg gets fertilized. It doesn’t fertilize itself, idiot. And you don’t just take the ‘day after pill’ whenever the fuck you want. It’s SO BAD for you. Not as bad as an actual abortion I guess, but you’re only supposed to take Plan B like twice in your life. This is something all boys should know. There are some retarded females out there who take it all the time, but I certainly don’t. In fact, I’ve never taken it before. Because I’m SO GOOD at taking my birth control, and I’ve been on it basically since I left the womb and there’s no way I’m getting pregnant anytime soon, even if I stop taking it. Also, I’m petrified of taking any pills (other than birth control) or putting chemicals into my body (which makes no sense, because I take birth control every day). I don’t take painkillers because I’m convinced I’ll get an ulcer or have a heart attack and die.
But, there’s no way I could ever take care of ANYONE else besides myself, and maybe the Brazilian has really fertile spermies, and since the message came less than 36 hours after the act, and I had a Plan B pack in my bathroom that Planned Parenthood gave me for free (because they know I’m a huge slut), I decided to open it, take a deep breath, and swallow it.
And that was the longest sentence ever.
Then I thought about all the ways I could die. Maybe Plan B will eat my stomach from the inside out and my intestines will fall out. Maybe the sperm-killing chemicals will also kill all of my white blood cells and I’ll contract swine flu and AIDS at the same time and slowly suffer for the next three weeks until my head explodes and there’s blood and dead sperm everywhere.
Clearly, I didn’t die. I didn’t even get sick. Although other girls have told me horror stories about having to skip school/work because the pill gave them the most evil and debilitating cramps of their lives. Oh, the sperm-killing terribleness!! Don’t we suffer enough with the monthly flow and the baby birthing??
These kinds of drugs were obviously created by men. If I had it my way, I would give all boys some kind of ‘night of’ pill before they sleep with me, not ‘morning after’ pill. That way I would be sure that if any of their sperm found a way into my ovaries, no babies would be made. And I wouldn’t even have to hear from them the next day.
Sounds like a win-win situation to me. Now, who’s the female pharmacist that’s going to patent this drug?? And what shall we call it?