Kids
Every decent porno is basically about bodies fucking each other until fluids go everywhere. Not love—just sex. Tits and dicks in close-up. But what comes after the grand finale, what nature supposedly designed this whole thing for? You never see it. And when you do, it’s usually something you’re not allowed to talk about.
Kids have become the enemy, somehow. Career-ending monsters, life-sucking parasites, the thing you bring up to watch your friends’ faces drop. Every show, every conversation treats parenthood like a death sentence. Women who want kids get written off, replaced by younger, childless, ambition-obsessed girls. It’s a collective decision we made: having a child is the worst possible outcome.
Except we forget something obvious. We all were that supposed parasite once. Some kid out there is going to cure cancer, or invent something weird, or just matter in a way that echoes. We exist because our parents powered through exactly this ambivalence. We are the evidence it’s worth doing, even if we’d never admit it out loud.
So I don’t know if I want kids. Some days yes, most days no, and every other day the question just sits there unanswered. Older generations had it easy—yes or no, clear stakes, clear reasons. We got stuck with maybe, and maybe is worse. We know the world’s broken and we don’t know ourselves well enough to have kids in it. The only honest thoughts I have about it come when I’m not thinking about it on purpose, when my guard’s down. That’s probably where the real answer lives, if it exists at all.