My Bibliographical Clock

I’ve never been one of those women with a biological clock. I’ve never felt the need to fertilize the eggs before their expiration date. Never spiralled into Ally McBeal’s baby-dancing depths because I didn’t have a child. Never felt the heat of the biological deadline burning in my uterus.

But I’m definitely feeling my bibliographical clock. And it says, “Time to make a baby, bitch.”

Time to make a fuckin’ baby.

And I see a lot of people makin’ some pretty fuckin’ ugly babies. Cross-eyed creatures that squeeze out a Stoker in their diapies. Crack babies with cleft lips from whores knocked up by the limp cock of some corporate numbskull. Legions of premies with piss-colored skin dropped between the legs of witless imprints. Withering, deformed brats cranked from someone’s goddamned garage press, complete with a birth announcement tacked onto every MySpace comment page in their whore train.

But there are plenty of beautiful kids out there, too. Plump, rosy-cheeked cherubs who catch everyone’s eye on the B&N shelf. Exotic South American-Asian mixes that take your breath away because they’re bold and unusual to read. Tots with old souls that astound you with the depths of their ideas. Those with such exquisite detail in every fold of pale skin and tuft of gossamer hair that you have to pick them up again and again.

Thing is, I’m pretty sure I could make a damned good-lookin’ baby. Not necessarily a Jon Benet or future Miss America, but one of those smart, sweet brats with curly raven ringlets that people beg to babysit. Or maybe a giggling, chubby redhead with curled fingers that makes strangers laugh in line at the supermarket. I could keep making these babies as long as I wished. Maybe they wouldn’t all be as beautiful or smart as the others, but I would make ’em and faithfully send them to school.

The first father doesn’t have to be my soulmate. He just needs to be likable, with a decent reputation and income. And he really has to want the baby, too. Sometimes I consider lowering my standards, but I don’t think I should. I’m open to speed dating and Internet dating, but I’m currently employing a professional matchmaker. She’s great, but we haven’t found The Right One yet. I’m attracted to older men, but I’m open to hooking up with someone younger if the circumstances are right.

Sperm banks (i.e. self publishing) are not an option. Period.

Technically I should not be in a hurry. There is no expiration date on my ideas, or even my talents. I will write until they blow my ashes from the keyboard. But for some bizarre reason, it feels like time is running out. And I don’t know why…

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