If I ever decide I want to pursue a relationship with you, one or more of the following things is bound to be true: A) You're taken. Either you were engaged when we met, or as soon as I put my foot forward and approach you you'll meet the man of your dreams. He'll be just over my left shoulder, or sitting to your right in some social studies class. B) You're going to have a baby. Either you were pregnant when we met, or you can't figure out how to properly apply a condom to your previous/current booty call and the two of you spilled sperm all over you. Seriously, you shouldn't buy condoms from the place that sells abortions. I can easily imagine the doctor who performs them (who would be considered by many as immoral already) sitting in the lobby after hours with a hot needle, poking the centers of the foil packages while laughing maniacally. In any case, you'll probably feign interest in me while complaining about how big of a jackass your babydaddy is being, and as soon as I finish comforting you you'll brag about how he's coming over for a rubberless romp across your decidedly not-empty bed. You're a waste of time. C) I also like someone else, and I make it up in my own head that it might be a good idea to pursue the other young lady; however, she turns out to be a flake or a whore and by the time I realize this you've reverted back to part A). Oh well. Time to go stare at the ceiling for 7 hours.