Fair warning for the boys – there’s some girl stuff here. Cover your ears.
I’d mentioned a few months ago how I got a new doctor and we went about doing my life story before moving on to my annual wellness exams.
Without going into too much detail, it basically became a fact finding mission to rule out sterility. Obviously, such a thing could be a problem later if we ever want crotchlings. After a battery of hormone panels, a few vials of blood and pregnancy tests (why on earth would I have to subject to four of those in a two month period?) the verdict is in – I’m defective, but I’m not. I just don’t follow a set schedule like normal women, and I don’t need no precautionary birth control methods. Which is awesome because all possible methods are irritating as fuck.
Ultimately, he said that it’s nothing to worry about, but every 3-4 months I’m supposed to take super-birth control for a week. Then, if we do ever have an interest in crotch spawning, there’s another pill he can prescribe to force my ovaries to punch out an egg or 5. Obvious side effects: the potential for multiple births. I could spawn an army, people. Be afraid. Very, very afraid.
I want mine with laser beams.
However, I am NOT about the kids right now…
…so all he was supposed to call in was pill #1. Apparently he fat-fingered the codes and called in the instant vagina army super pack instead. Imagine my surprise and confusion when I went to the pharmacy to get my prescription and the pharmacist pulled me aside to go over a long list of instructions including regimented sexy time and my brain was swimming back and forth like a gold fish following a tennis match, and all I could do was stand there going uhhhh…..hrm. I don’t think this is right. And a call to the doctor’s office confirmed that, “whoopsie! Our bad.” I mean, I know you’re an obstetrics/gynecology practice, but that’s not the most ethical way to drum up business.
If I were a dumber pretty girl, I’d probably be knocked up right now. You’re welcome, world.