And by the grace of God (or whatever force it is that runs the mind of Derrick Thompson) it spills forth: “I didn’t even think I wanted to be near kids, much less have one for myself! They’re sticky and gross and they smell weird, and they’re always leaking fluids, and they do stupid shit like eat bugs and glue, and the cost! Holy fuck me sideways, the cost? They always want new stuff like clothes and food and slap bracelets and Super Nintendos and Hypercolor T-shirts! I don’t think they even make Hypercolor t-shirts anymore! Where would I even go to find one now? Goodwill? I can’t even go into Goodwill without feeling like my dreams are dying! And kids get hurt so easy! What if he loses an arm in a boating accident or gets attacked by a gorilla when we go to the zoo on an educational visit? I don’t know if I could deal with a two-armed kid, and now I have to have a kid with only one arm because he wanted to try and feed the gorilla cotton candy? That’s some fucking bullshit! I didn’t even want this, but then we were sitting at a restaurant minding our own business when this little boy walks by wearing little checkered Vans, and he was walking and singing a song and dancing. He was dancing, and all of a sudden I turned to Otter and demanded he put a baby in me! But I’m a guy, and he’s a guy, and that’s biologically impossible, but what the fuck is going on in my body that all I could think about was offering those parents five hundred dollars if we could just buy their son so I could hold his hand while he wore his checkered Vans and sang a song and danced? How is it even remotely normal that my biological clock is ticking? You know me! The idea of me raising a child is so far out of the realm of possibility that it should be absolutely ludicrous, but no! It’s all fucking Otter’s fault! He’s the one who encouraged this! He’s the one that said this was okay! And now I’m drunk again and I’m pretty sure I’m going to turn into a stay-at-home mom who gets wasted on Merlot at one in the afternoon while waiting for the kids to come home, and I’ll be forced to go to T-ball games and I’ll hide my wine in juice boxes because I think T-ball is literally the most excruciating thing to watch. I mean, come on. The ball is sitting right there and you miss it? Are you fucking blind? But then it all comes back to that little kid in the checkered Vans, and I don’t care. I will be the alcoholic T-ball mom who gets drunk and yells at the refs because my kid just needs a little more time to hit the ball so the refs had better fucking calm the fuck down!”