Once you hit thirty it’s like the dating sites, misogynistic bastards that they are, assume you’re all dried up, over the hill, you’re past your prime and won’t be having kids of your own so they might as well only show you guys that have kids.
That’s it. Decision made. And really, it’s for your own good. You obviously weren’t using your ovaries properly anyways. So just go ahead and let those bad boys turn to dust. Sit down, shut up and accept your pre-made family. The tall one likes his beef medium rare and his beer cold, the small one likes PB&J, no crust.
I mean, heaven forbid anyone enter into an adult, committed relationship and Never. Have. Kids.
Perish the thought! It’s like we’re not even speaking the same language. Not have kids? Not have sticky fingers tangle in your hair, snot rubbed into your pant leg, vomit spewed all over your nice dress five minutes before you’re supposed to leave for date night? Who could live without that?
Seriously though, it’s kid after kid after kid after kid. HAS NO ONE HEARD OF BIRTH CONTROL?! Is it no longer physically possible for guys to enter their thirties without impregnating some chick? We get it, you’re virile! NO ONE ASKED FOR PROOF! And, honestly, it’s not quite the selling point you seem to think it is!
I mean, forget the fact that I have not, to date, ever had the urge to procreate. That apparently doesn’t matter. Dating sites have deemed I’m old enough that I should have a kid by any means necessary. So when I hit thirty-five a stork is probably going to leave a baby on my doorstep or guys in trench coats are going to start following me around and when they open them to sell me their ill-gotten goods it’s not going to be fake Rolex’s, it’ll be babies. Babies in trench coats. That’s what I have in store for me. Which is funny, because, in my esteemed opinion the only reason to have kids is to have someone morally obligated to stick you in a half-decent care facility when your mind and bowels start to go.