My dear ones, congratulate me—I’m pregnant!........Pregnant ..

My dear ones, congratulate me—I’m pregnant!
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Pregnant with chicken and rice from a Chinese restaurant, three tangerines, and two chocolate Santas.

It’s a shame, though, because I’m absolutely obsessed with the idea of pregnancy. In real life, I talk about the whole process with disgust—how it ruins your health, and I have no desire for children at all. Part of that is true: carrying a baby while dragging yourself to work, living in constant stress, being unable to get proper sleep. Then spending days and nights with a baby because you can’t afford a nanny, stressing over work and money again, fearing your little one will be an outcast in kindergarten or school. Fearing they might repeat your path.

People often say murder is the worst sin. For me, bringing a new life into the world is much worse—you condemn a living soul to a life of suffering and a slow death, just for your own amusement.

But in my imagined world… it’s all different, of course. There, I’m soft and feminine, next to my calm, strong, imaginary partner. Our bond is incredibly close—we’re both outcasts in a way, but we’ve found a home in each other. I don’t worry about tomorrow—resources are endless, and there’s no need to put myself into grueling, scary studies or work. I’m safe.

With my partner, I feel calm, close to him, sincere. Our intimacy brings me joy and warmth. Just thinking about it makes my stomach flutter. I imagine the miracle of conception, the first signs of pregnancy. Should it be planned or a surprise? What does it feel like when your lover’s hands touch your growing belly? Thinking about it, I feel a kind of divine status. A special purpose, a meaning. It feels like the one thing I could do well and where I’d belong. My body aches for this—it’s like I’ve become hyper-aware of my fertility at this age.

I feel cautious about children, though—they don’t visually excite me, and I just see them as little people. And I don’t really like most people. I used to think I hated kids, but I’ve realized I hate parents. I despise people who drag a helpless, pink baby into noisy cafes, shopping malls, amusement parks, or bars. I hate my brother and his wife for bringing their little girl to visit us, while she—an incredibly patient and smart girl—ends up crying from exhaustion.

I hate it and my heart aches for these kids who aren’t even mine, and I can’t save them from it. It’s terrifying to think about a pure, kind little person coming into the world only to be ruined by two idiots who just enjoyed having sex. It’s terrifying to think about a baby just learning to walk, only to be thrown into the grinder of life and spat out onto the sidelines. That’s why I’m so cautious about children.

My life is far better than most, and even so, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

But in my imagined world, I have seven children—boys and girls. They always know they’re loved, wanted, that their parents are their safety and protection. There’s enough money that they’ll study purely for knowledge and self-growth, not for some diploma. They’ll have any entertainment or hobby they choose, and they’ll always have access to healthcare if needed.

They’ll have strong, healthy self-esteem, and they’ll never experience the ugliness and unfairness of the world while they’re little. Nothing will break them as they grow, and their home will be their fortress, their parents their allies and protectors—not wardens. Their father will be deeply involved in their lives, protecting the family and inspiring pride and strength. Their mother will spend time with them, play with them, instead of working for a stranger and going to bed angry at the world. They won’t attend that madhouse of a school or have to obey idiot strangers.

I imagine walking with my partner through his enormous, dark castle, the corridors filled with the sound of loud footsteps and joyful laughter. And I think about nothing but love.