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Dear Michelle,
Hi, it's Francine... your vagina. It seems sort of silly to introduce myself since we are so close. Or at least I thought we were, but then I had to go and read on the Internet that you are having yet another kid. That’s right, I read the Internet. I have to do something when you’re breastfeeding 42 kids.
OK, that was a little harsh. But I’m a tad upset. I mean, 19 kids? 19?! It seems like every time I finish pushing out one kid, another is lined up. Is your uterus a baseball dugout?
Let me get real with you here, Michelle. There’s simply no way you can give each of those kids the personal attention he needs. You’re too busy making and popping out kids to pay attention to the ones who aren’t currently latching. And using your older children as surrogate parents is a recipe for immature behavior down the road. You’re robbing them of their childhoods by making them mini mommies and daddies.
Of course, some people hold you up like a goddess simply because you can procreate. You know, Michelle, earthworms can procreate. You don’t see them getting their own TV show.
Quite frankly, I blame Octomom on you.
And what about me?! Do you know that people on the Web call me a clown car? A clown car, for pete’s sake! I’ve become a laughingstock because of your addiction to pregnancy!
Please, Michelle, I beg of you; stop having babies. I know it’s tempting to go to 20, but maybe you should just focus on the kids you already have. Mmmmkay?
By the way, while I have your attention, I think it’s time for a new hair style. You look like a member of Mr. Big.
Sincerely,
Francine (your vagina)
P.S. I give up.
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