THAT'S MY BOY

It's surprisingly easy to become ridiculously attached to an imaginary baby.

...

...What? You don't believe me? Well try it. Really.

Tell people you're having a fake baby. Pick out a name for it. Look at little children clothing at the store and imagine your imaginary child wearing it. Start referring to this baby as a he instead of it. Rub your belly. Pick out his features, his personality, his future. Smile mysteriously to yourself because your pregnancy gives you weird hormonal vibes and smiling becomes strangely appropriate even if it doesn't pertain to the situation you are in. Eat an insane amount of food because you are supporting two mouths and you can't let your baby go hungry. Your baby needs his nutrition to grow big and strong and be the biggest stud on the playground.

Pretty soon when someone comes up to you to try and tell you that little Hubert Bobby-Drew Wolverine Jr. doesn't actually exist, you will face astoundment beyond words. Your jaw with drop with sheer outrage at this asshole and you will battle with the urge to attack him with the ferocity of a rabid chinchilla. HOW DARE... HOW...HOW DARE HE TELL YOU YOUR DEAR PRECIOUS LITTLE MIRACLE ISN'T REAL. Your raging pregnancy has no mercy.

And then you will go and cry in a corner because nobody understands you.

In case you are wondering... this is pretty much in every way a story of my life.

You see... last week we started a project in Biology called the "Pride and Joy" project. Basically you are partnered up with somebody of the opposite gender and "make a baby" by randomly selecting different features from each parent. We spent about three days making our little miracle (any disturbing/inappropriate comment you could possibly think of has already been made by my class, so don't even try it).

In the end, we had a beautiful little boy named DeAngelo Ramón lé Hurricane Jr. III.

In my head it went like this:

Yes there were lions there.

Now...despite how fantastically adorable he may be... I have some bad news. DeAngelo probably won't live past age 10. As a part of the assignment, he had to be given a genetic disorder, and the one we got is actually really sad. I... I don't really like to talk about it.

If you need me I'll be in a dark corner of self-pity, wallowing in the fact that nobody understands my misfortune.