And Brooklyn, with its glut of desperate wombs, has no shortage of upmarket strollers, the squeaks and caws of their passengers cautiously analyzed by their wrinkled mothers for signs of autism (bad) or genius (good). I am soon to get married, but given the general despair of the era and the fact that the oceans are now 58% molten lead I do not think of the joys of tiny fingers grasping my thumb but instead relentlessly catalog the disasters that could befall us, assuming of course that my ability to father a child has not been obliterated by all these years spent sucking down crooked molecules.
If We Have a Child and the Rats Do Not Eat It First I Will Teach Her (or Him) to Fear Sting.
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