There is the price of the birth canal, which is poppy poppy spike spike and when you say it feels so good to you you have to know that it feels good to me, too! Poppy poppy snazzy snazzy hoo haa. It's my tether for you, boy you got endless fascination for the mole between my legs. They say crazy girls fuck the best well come to momma. I be warming up the butter, lather your roll. Have ourselves a regular Italian restaurant how do you think kids in the jungle figured out to do it they got that movie Blue Lagoon I guess it's like magic—magnetism—some biothermal force given to us in the formative moments. Sperm. Egg. Millions of cell doublings within the first seconds. Gastrulation. The most important event in your life. That's what my AP Bio teacher taught, and I upped and took that one piece of knowledge and started my workshop at home, in my bedroom, in the fetus room. Plied myself some red-velvet throws, fat-ass pillows, and a white teddy bear to increase cuteness. If you want a boy to cum quickly you must give him the proper imaginings. The teddy bear gets him in touch with little-girl helplessness feelings and fear—I am afraid, he must comfort me as he scares me at the same time, or as the act scares me. It helps to be in your parents' house—boys like to fuck girls in their childhood bedroom, it increases their sense of conquest. Yes, I did a survey. Other than that if you make a lot of sounds and just lie there they'll cum pretty quick. That's when I jump up like Aha! and whip out my funnel and my sperm-collecting jar and they be like What the! and I be like shut up I'm trying to collect your sperm. I be havin' my mouth pressed together and my lip squirming out my lips gettin' that funnel right up in my hoo haa and he be like What the fuck! That's when you look at him with comforting eyes and inform him he's now part of your breeding program. What did you think—that this was all fun and games? No, Dude. I need your motherfucking sperm! Sit him on the couch. Say Look. I'm not here to ruin your life with alimony and all that bourgeois jazz. And we're not going to fuck again—unless I need another sample. And he be like Whatever, bitch, I just got my jim off. I roll my eyes. They're willing to give up all manner of independence for that thing. It's like their mission in life to drop a load every minute and hour of the goddamn clock. Someone has to be the simpler half of the species. But I do love his punch punch muscles! That'll make me squirm. So you show him the jar and tell him that this is the last time he will see his baby alive—though post-mortem pictures of the fetus will be provided to every donor. Then I do the kicky kick and exit the donor from my room. Put his seedlings in a mylar balloon, tie off the hole. Add shreds of denim cut from pre-distressed jeans. Add jelly beans. Throw up in my mouth a little—add that. Pinch some carbon, helium, oxygen from the fluffiest cloud in the sky—scrape along its edges with a surgery knife. This next part is critical: create a small mountain of magnesium shavings. Steal magnesium from the chem lab at school or use one of those magnesium fire starters from the camping section at Walmart. You'll want a mountain about two knuckles tall. Be very careful not to get any fingernail clippings or skin cells in this pile. Magnesium will increase the intelligence of the fetum exponential style. Especially due to the short lifespan of my fetum, I prefer to accelerate their intelligence. That way we can have conversations as old man and old woman before we all die at 12. There is a madness to this method, I assure you. My kids be remote controlling drones by eight weeks, flying them shits over Illinois and Indiana blowing up pig farms and shit—it's awesome. I had one kid wanted to be a hair dresser—we set him up a mini studio between the bed and the dresser and he built a client base of eight and invented new hairstyles by the time—a week later—he croaked when I held his head under water too long on purpose—oops! You win some you lose some. Well, technically, you lose it all—we all do—but this ain't no lesson in philosophy. Let me ask you something: did anyone teach you how to play? No. A mother can say, Kid, go play! and the kid will know exactly what to do. It's like fucking in The Blue Lagoon—I mean people just figure it out. I'm not going to tell you about my parents or anything because, let's face it, that would be giving them too much credit. But I will say that my mother was a preacher instilling in me every value she ever projected—except the opposite—and my father was a panty-dropping freak who used to walk around the house in man panties even—or especially—when my mom's sisters came to visit. He never raped me or anything. He did make me shower with him till the age of 12 and wash his junk till it was squeaky squeaky clean. Which did affect me, I suppose—but not as much as when my brother peed on me. I feel we're getting into territory too personal, and I want to maintain my dignity so that you will be able to consider me the good guy in a story shamelessly telling the adventures of a girl—that's me!—who breeds human fetuses in her bedroom for the sole purpose of their examination and murder.