We'll get the Prom Queen impregnated.
My Gay Boyfriend (neither gay nor my boyfriend, really) sends me emails every day. Here's what he stuck in my box first thing this morning:
There is trouble. Are you sitting down? Well, it turns out my brother has knocked up his English girlfriend. You know I like to shine the brightest, get the most praise, and the fact that my brother and whatsherface will be having a child before you and I is terribly, terribly disheartening. The plan? Well, there are things on our side: we are young and probably more virulent than they are. Our eggs and sperm are probably so amazingly durable, they would sparkle in the moonlight. We need to get to work at once, and then we probably need to have a cesarean or something so we can get our little Socrates out before "heather" or "Joseph" or whatever they are going to call their kid. Don't worry, I have the feeling that Socrates is going to be a tough little a-hole and won't mind the respirator. RSVP
This is what I am dealing with.
