Now I can’t move. Literally. I have sex sprains up the kazoo. ( and no not cause of position but location. Location. Location. Location.) I can’t bend down to tie my converse let alone walk the 20 minutes to work.
But I face the music and walk the walk and yet still get walk of shame calls in my uniform. It may have had something to do with the fact that my uniform includes the slogan “We deliever 8 inches in the cold.”
After 6 grueling hours of work. I somehow manage to pass out on my couch from 5p.m. to 9p.m. At 9:03 exactly I woke up. Still hung over, still nauseous. And then it hits me. I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant? Oh, dear god I am pregnant!
My parents even said if you have sex and you don’t use a condom you will get pregnant and die! Or wait was that Mean Girls? Either way, Tina Fey and my mom would not lie to me… would they?
Still disheveled from my five -hour nap, I run and manage to trip over a book, a table and a bed in search of my phone. I must call CVS. I must get this elixir they call Plan B.
But wait? I don’t have a car. How will I get there? The Roommate! The roommate will save me! I call the roommate. The roommate says CVS is closed. Fuck.
But there is a 72-hour gap. Eureka! It’s only been like what 13 hours? Right? Yeah? Yeah. I’m good. I’m so good. I’m soooo not going to be pregnant…
THE NEXT DAY
Hair disheveled. Red Soffee shorts and a black T-shirt with “YEARBOOK NERD” plastered on the front. (This is the right attire to pick up Plan B I presume.) The roommate drops me off @ CVS. The pharmacy is closed. Fail. God damn you Jesus. You and your resurrection. There are more important things such as erasing this potential mistake, mister.
CVS numerous 2. Pharmacy is open! Not fail! The half-Jewish roommate is scouring through the Easter greeting cards as I stumble towards the back forcing down the vomit that I now assume is morning sickness.
Children are frolicking all around. Singing, “We are your future! We are your future! Fuck with god and he will torture!”
I fall to the ground and begin to hurl bouncy balls and transformer figurines at these demons…I mean children, screaming, “God will not prevail!!” (Okay this didn’t happen but whatever.)
I walk back to the pharmacy, and timidly ask for Plan B.
“What?” Said with a Southern accent.
“Plan B!” I repeat as I hand the pharmacist my drug money. An obese overweight child eating something orange out of his belly-button stops, forms words in his head and then turns to his also obese mother and asks:
“Momma? What is a Plan B?”
“Well Dwayne.” As she begins to rub her mistakes belly. “Plan B is a baby killer used by sinners who would rather murder an innocent child than deal with the terrible mistakes they have chosen to make…. and they usually go to hell.“
I think she was talking about me.