Out with a girlfriend late last night, we took turns assuring one another that the fact that we didn’t respond to babies didn’t make us monsters. “Something in me is broken,” she said. “I just don’t feel anything, and I’m afraid that if I have a kid, I still won’t feel anything.”

“I worry that if I have a kid I *will* feel something,” I replied. “What if I become one of those people who say ‘No, really, smell the baby’s head!’ I don’t want to smell that. It’s a testament to the banality of babies that they all have that same baby-head smell anyhow.”

“The last time I held a baby I accidentally moved my arm too suddenly and the baby’s head moved funny. I was all like ‘Whoops! I broke the baby!'” she added, fishing a piece of ice out of her cocktail glass and popping it into her mouth. I laughed sinisterly.

“Why do parents foist their babies on us anyhow? Everywhere I go, someone wants me to hold the baby. ‘Here, hold the baby!’ Plop!” I feigned holding an infant. “And babies are so dumb–they just snuggle up to you. Clueless.”

At this point, the bartender placed a half-full glass of water on our table. Illicit smoking time! It almost seemed like a message from God: It’s okay, I don’t want you to reproduce anyhow.

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