When Birth Comes To Shove

Well, this is my second post.

It’s only my second time, really.

Like all great acts with a hit debut I’m a tad nervous my sophomoric effort is going to be a bit of a let down.

Mind you, I’m not nearly as nervous as some pregnant African girls must be. You see, having undergone infibulation as an adolescent to maintain her perceived purity, a pregnant girl must first be held down so a village elder can cut her lady-bits open with a blunt knife so she can deliver the baby. Once the baby has been born the elder then ties her legs together for three days so the wound can “grow over”, vagina’s apparently being quite like peat moss in that respect.

The worst part is that I’m assuming that with no Project Runway or America’s Next Top Model to distract the poor girl she no doubt spends the next few months just trying to resist picking at the scab.

“Mother, I picked it again.”

“Oh, for Allah’s sake, just leave it alone! You know if you pick it the rains won’t come!”

“Sorry mother. Can I watch America’s Next Top Model?”

“No.”

“Ok.” *picks scab*

 

So, yeah, I bet they get pretty nervous. I’m not THAT nervous.

Pretty nervous though.


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