A few days ago I found myself staring at the cover of yet another woman’s magazine, the name of which escapes me. What drew my attention wasn’t the semi-nude actress who inevitably features on these literary marvels but the word “surrogacy”. The word naturally* prompted the following thought process: “Surrogacy? Hmmm I wonder how much they pay for that. Would it be enough for a down payment on a house? I could really use the money. And I’m perfect for the job. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink and I certainly don’t do drugs. Who wouldn’t want their seed in me? Erm, Sid if you do ever plan on transcribing the following thought process to your readers, you might want to think about replacing the word seed with fertilised egg. You don’t want to set your male readers’ minds adrift on memory bliss. Hahaha girl, I love the fact that you’re capable of inserting the titles of 90s “classics” into mundane thought processes. You are awesome.”
“But the baby’s head stuck for some reason, and the doctor told Will he’d have to make a cut. I heard the scissors close on the woman’s skin like cloth and the blood began to run down, a fierce bright red.”
And that my friend is what I want. No, not the agony of childbirth but the ability to conjure up phrases so captivating that it will be forever etched in your memory. I want YOU to recall my words while living your little pedestrian life, doing your mindless tasks. I can think of very few things that will give me more pleasure than having the ability to convince young, idealistic girls that the way to owning a house is NOT through renting out their wombs but by drugging unsuspecting foreign men and then selling their organs on the black market. (The organs of the foreigners. Not their own organs …) What? You didn’t actually think that I was going to recommend hard work, did you?