November 1, 2008
Tracy, You’re Blowing This Abortion Out of Proportion
Codependent Collegian Guest Editorial by Evan Frankfurt, Clemson University Class of 2009
Evan and Tracy, During Their 37-Hour Romance
Tracy, neither of us will forget that fateful night eight weeks ago when we made sweet love in the back of my Prius and then hit up Denny’s for some Grand Slam omelets. Sure, I have a few regrets—sticking my pinky in your ass was a bit rash, and I should have turned the new Metallica album off and put the radio on that smooth jazz station no one likes except when they’re fucking.
But Tracy, the way you exploded when I suggested our most logical and affordable option was nothing short of immature—you’re really blowing this abortion out of proportion.
What exactly is your sticking point with this? I mean, it’s not like you’re Catholic and going to burn in hell forever while devils dance around a circle of flame and jab you in the uterus with their pitchforks. And it’s not like you particularly like kids, because that one time I wanted to watch “Jon and Kate Plus 8,” you said you’d rather punch yourself in the boob than watch that crazy family for a half hour.
Are you scared that the procedure is going to hurt? As a life-long field hockey player, I’d like to think you have a remarkable threshold for pain. And as far as the cost, I told you that we could hit the Coinstar machine at the post office on our way to the clinic, so I got it covered.
Abortions are a natural part of life, Tracy, and you should be grateful we live in the United States of America. Yeah, it might be tough for folks to get bridge work done or get physical therapy for a work-related injury, but damn if we Americans don’t take our embryo vacuuming pretty goddamn serious.
So let’s plan on going Friday, Trace, since neither one of us has class, and we can be back in time for the Kappa kegger.
And maybe, just maybe, if you take this all in stride like a big girl, we can hit up Denny’s afterwards for old time’s sake.
Evan and Tracy, During Their 37-Hour Romance
Tracy, neither of us will forget that fateful night eight weeks ago when we made sweet love in the back of my Prius and then hit up Denny’s for some Grand Slam omelets. Sure, I have a few regrets—sticking my pinky in your ass was a bit rash, and I should have turned the new Metallica album off and put the radio on that smooth jazz station no one likes except when they’re fucking.
But Tracy, the way you exploded when I suggested our most logical and affordable option was nothing short of immature—you’re really blowing this abortion out of proportion.
What exactly is your sticking point with this? I mean, it’s not like you’re Catholic and going to burn in hell forever while devils dance around a circle of flame and jab you in the uterus with their pitchforks. And it’s not like you particularly like kids, because that one time I wanted to watch “Jon and Kate Plus 8,” you said you’d rather punch yourself in the boob than watch that crazy family for a half hour.
Are you scared that the procedure is going to hurt? As a life-long field hockey player, I’d like to think you have a remarkable threshold for pain. And as far as the cost, I told you that we could hit the Coinstar machine at the post office on our way to the clinic, so I got it covered.
Abortions are a natural part of life, Tracy, and you should be grateful we live in the United States of America. Yeah, it might be tough for folks to get bridge work done or get physical therapy for a work-related injury, but damn if we Americans don’t take our embryo vacuuming pretty goddamn serious.
So let’s plan on going Friday, Trace, since neither one of us has class, and we can be back in time for the Kappa kegger.
And maybe, just maybe, if you take this all in stride like a big girl, we can hit up Denny’s afterwards for old time’s sake.
Labels: abortion