I Can Barely Take Care of Myself, Jen Kirkman [the false prince txt] 📗

die but really they’re just rubbing it in my face that they get to stay and I have to leave.

I’ve told my friends who fear dying alone that if they never have a child who will take care of them in their old age, they can come to my place, provided that they bring their own cot on which to take their last breath and some kind of attendant who can take care of the body. I will sit with them until almost the very end and at the moment when their soul is about to pass I will quickly pull out a cardboard cutout of myself, place it in front of their fading eyes, and run out my back door to avoid hearing the death rattle of a good friend.

I didn’t like the movie Stand by Me. I was terrified that any second those boys would stop bonding and find that body. I do not like dead bodies. I know that you’re thinking, Nobody likes dead bodies, Jen. I beg to differ. Some people perform autopsies for a living! Nobody is making them do it! Some people even put makeup and wigs on dead people for a living—I’d be too scared to be alone in a mall, working as a mannequin dresser. Recently, in the Hollywood Hills, some hikers found a human head in the woods on the side of the trail, after their dog sniffed around and pulled it straight out of the plastic bag in which it was hidden. This is why I don’t have a child, or a dog. Both of them always want to play with things that aren’t toys—like Mommy’s vibrator and plastic bags filled with heads.

When I go hiking, I want to look straight ahead and listen to a Dr. Wayne Dyer self-help podcast. I want to get contemplative or listen to Madonna and pretend that I’m in a music video. I have no time to stop and let my pet/kid off its leash so it can run to the edge of the woods and start playing with body parts. I’m not going to wear a fanny pack just so that I can carry hand sanitizer on the off chance that I have to wipe crime-scene DNA off my toddler’s tiny hands.

If you’re married or have kids, that doesn’t mean you won’t die alone. You could be groggy from last night’s Ambien and mistake a white paper napkin on your counter for a slice of cheese pizza. A few bites in and you start to choke. You collapse to the floor, gasping for breath; the sink is so far away and all you need is some water to wash it down. You eventually give in to the comfort of the white light that you see in front of your eyes. You lay your head down and die, holding on to shards of a half-eaten napkin . . . all of this can happen when your husband is driving the kids to school.

No matter how many assurances you think you might have that you’ll be surrounded by and cared for by your children at your last breath, that kitchen floor awaits, ready to take you before your time. I’m safeguarding my home and saving my life by not bringing children into it who will be so messy that I’m required to keep lots of napkins on our countertops. And I take other precautions around the house: I don’t engage in any antics like shower dancing or autoerotic asphyxiation. Ultimately, I am afraid of pulling a Mrs. Sanders. That’s another reason I don’t have a dog. If I do fall to my death while changing a lightbulb, I don’t want my face to be licked off before somebody comes to find me.

11. It’s None of Your Business, but Since You Asked . . .

Feel free to skip this chapter if you’ve ever been at a cocktail party and asked someone whether he or she wanted to have children, and after that person said no, you pressed on and either told the person what to do (have a change of heart and have a child) or asked follow-up questions such as: “Well, are you open to adoption?” and “What does your husband/mother/father/sister/brother/psychic/proctologist/mailman say about your selfish refusal to pass on your DNA and contribute to the excessive number of double-wide strollers on narrow city sidewalks, not to mention the selfish preservation of the sanctity of your bedroom by not adding a crib and doing whatever you want with your free time?”

I’ve worked myself up into a bit of a frenzy and am admittedly heated. So, warning: This chapter might not be for you if you’ve ever asked someone whether he or she wants to have children and after that person says no, you’ve tried to guess why, didn’t listen to the answer, and instead offered unsolicited advice on how to still make it work, such as:

“Don’t worry about the money now. Just get pregnant and it will all work itself out.”

“You should freeze your eggs because if you’re feeling like an empty soulless husk as you get older, it will be too late.”

“Not everyone shits in the hospital bed when they deliver a baby. If you poop before you go to the hospital, you’ll be fine.”

Most people who don’t want kids also don’t want to be cornered by strangers at parties who launch an informal investigation into our psyches and backgrounds and decision-making capabilities. It’s been proven that vice presidential hopeful Sarah Palin wasn’t vetted as extensively as I have been in the company of women who are searching for a yet-to-be-discovered “good reason” why I don’t want to have children.

Because a woman might have reached a certain age (at which her eggs are rotting in her abdominal refrigerator) or wears a wedding ring (signifying her clear willingness to settle down with one sexual partner for life and gain some permanent weight around her midriff), people seem to think that it’s high time to encourage her