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Mid-August fuckery

I am reminded always of how terrible a "writer" I am. I put "writer" in quotes because how can I call myself a writer when I hardly ever write? I am a product of the media of my time, and that media is now streaming movies and tv shows.

I don't think I'm alone in this, however. I've barrelled through how many movies and shows since the beginning of this pandemic? Too many to count and too many I want to admit.

My books collect dust waiting for me to open, to fold the corners of pages with lines that I have underlined that catch my eye, or tell me something I do not know. There are many things I do not know.

I haven't been able to concentrate on written words. Images and dialogue have been my escape from the debauchery at how America has handled this pandemic. I get lost in other stories to try and not think about my own sad life.

I blew through the series, "Little Fires Everywhere," yesterday. I'm a fan of both Reese Witherspoon and Kerry Washington. Witherspoon's character, Elena Richardson, reminds me of a lot of her character in "Big Little Lies" as Madeline Mackenzie, which is probably the reason why she was cast.

The thought of creating something was inspired by Kerry Washington's character, Mia Warren, who is a mixed media artist in the Hulu series. But actually creating something is a different motivation of which I seemed to have lost.

Tears were fallen as I watched the series, but there was still a disconnect. I'll always be able to relate to the complexity of mother-daughter relationships but always just as a daughter.

One of my friends from back home is pregnant with her third child. She is suffering from hyperemesis as she did with her previous pregnancies and I asked my best friend, "Why would anyone want to suffer through that for the third time? Why are people having three children?"

Lola and I are still two of very few women in their mid-thirties without a child. We joke about having one. Just one. She jokes more about it than I do since she has been with her boyfriend for eight years now.

"And how do I still not know a single person in our age bracket that has adopted?" I ask her. It troubles me.

I like my life the way it is. I have several mouths to feed as is with the menagerie. All of their care combined over the years still wouldn't even add up to the cost of having a child.

Many people got pregnant during this pandemic and all I can think is, "Who the fuck wants a kid right now?"

There was already poor funding in our education. Now let's throw in a global pandemic and try and develop the minds of our youth. Great.

The uncertainty of our future wears too much on me. My anxiety prevents me from really imagining being the whole world to one tiny person. But I still can't help from wondering am I missing out on one of the greatest experiences a woman can have?

Another friend from home is pregnant with her second child and she was wondering about comfortable sex positions. In our group chat with all our high school friends, I replied, "Sorry, I don't have sex positions for you. You know I'd figure that shit out immediately if I was ever pregnant. But I think it's safe to say that my eggs are bad. All the sex I've had and not once gotten pregnant?"

I was always the sex advisor in our group. Half of us are parents. Half of us are not.

My period was this past week and each month it's both a relief and a disappointment. It is mostly relief. But knowing I have very few eggs left and constantly being faced with mortality, I cannot help but be a little sad that evolution is phasing me out.

I cannot ignore the science that backs wiping out my DNA.

If there is no one after me, what will I have left upon this world? Just another Asian whore you can search on Pornhub? But even that will be forgotten in time.

I'll just be code, stored on drives that will probably be lost in the heaping trash my species spectacularly builds upon. Discarded and forgotten.

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