Your Inner Monologue While Buying Plan B


Nothing is worse than buying Plan B. It screws up your period, it’s embarrassing to buy, and it’s expensive. It’s basically just a pain in the ass all around — kind of like that guy who conveniently forgot to wear a condom when you two were hooking up last night. You didn’t mean for it to happen, but then again that’s why it’s called Plan B in the first place. It doesn’t matter if he offers to go halfsies on it (which, by the way, is the least he can do), no one is going to be happy while heading to the nearest pharmacy and picking up their hormone accelerants. These are the five stages of grief you experience while buying Plan B.


It’s fine, it’s fine. Pre-cum is an urban legend and $50 could be spent on far better things, like those Quay sunglasses I’ve been wanting. Also pretty sure I’m not even ovulating right now because I just got off my period like a week ago. Or wait does that mean I am ovulating? Fuck, I should’ve paid way more attention during sex ed in 10th grade, but I was too busy whispering to my friends how much I was wigging about my dad seeing my hickey.


That stupid, irresponsible, drunk fuckboy! He had one job: have a condom. Actually two jobs: have a condom and make me orgasm. He didn’t succeed with either and now here I am pacing the aisle weighing the options of having to dip into my liquor fund or have a child with his nose.


Hi, Greater Being, me here. I know I usually chat with you right before I check my bank account or before I walk into a final. Oh, and I know my Easter dress was a little short this year, but hey, at least I showed up! But I really need to go out on a limb here and ask for a teeny favor. If you delay me having a child until I’m, I don’t know, 28ish and happily married to preferably, like, a doctor, I promise I’ll stop all my sinning. Please keep any buns out of my oven until I’m old enough to afford my own kitchen and know how to actually use my oven. I’ll watch the 700 Club when I’m doing cardio, I’ll become a reborn virgin even if that’ll totally waste my recent wax and I’ll stop using the F word so fucking much, just please don’t impregnate me. I just got down to my goal weight and small boobs are in right now.


This is it. My life is over. The stretch marks. The disappointment. Oh my God, the stretch marks. I am going to have an illegitimate child with a boy who thinks J. Cole is an acceptable artist to have sex to. Oh my God, its first kick will be when “Power Trip” comes on the radio. What have I done? I never asked for this. I just wanted to take a couple of tequila shots, make out with someone and spend $50 on more important things like brunch and getting my roots touched up. I need to text the father of my child and warn him that I’ll expect child support. He can go ahead and Venmo me for the private daycare I’ll be sending Jr. to. Shit, I’m tearing up. Oh no, it’s the hormones. I’m already suffering from pregnancy hormones.


Whatever, $50 is a lot cheaper than 18 years of a brat that will probably be as much of a name brand whore as I am. The apple never falls far from the tree, right? Well, now that that’s over I’ll go drown my sorrows in a margarita. Actually, a virgin margarita just in case.

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