"War is Peace! Freedom is Slavery! Ignorance is Strength!": My uterus as ruled by Big Brother

What do George Orwell's 1984 and my uterus have in common? They both live in Crazy Logic World! This is what I've learned about sex in the last year and a few months.

• Sex does not lead to babies.
• Getting probed by a dildocam and having perfectly timed sex does not lead to babies.
• Taking fertility drugs, getting probed by a dildocam, shooting myself up with pregnancy hormone, and getting my partner's jizz shot up into my uterus with a catheter does not lead to babies.
• Doing the previous causes other people to make babies, as if I am a voodoo doll for the fertility of everyone else in the universe.
• I really should get some kind of commission every time I do a fertility cycle, because someone else is going to get pregnant (this does not include fertile 16 year olds, because they get pregnant no matter what, even with this mythical "sex" thing). 
• Oral contraceptives are like x-ray specs: they don't actually work (because of the first bullet point--sex does not lead to babies), they are difficult sometimes to claim as a tax-deductible expense, depending on the state in which you live, and they can make you dizzy. 
• In order to get pregnant, I need to take oral contraceptives first. 
• Wait, whut?

So this is what happens when you are about to start your first IVF cycle (pending insurance approval). You bleed. Then you need to take oral contraceptives. "It's not for contraception," says my RE. "No shit," I say back. Because, come on. Once again: James Carville's bald pate. Nothing's going to grow in there. But apparently you need to take the Pill so your ovaries can have a rest, as if your ovaries are capable of expelling eggs without shots and prayers and sacrificial chickens. But whatever, it was $5. They may as well be Tic-Tacs. But I will take them dutifully starting on CD3 in order for my ovaries to go on sabbatical. 

Then I get to take something called Lupron, which makes me sing a song I like to call "The Lupron Dance." I'm not sure if that is one of the listed side effects.

Then, the fun needles and drugs part comes in, that is, if the insurance request goes through. If it does not go through, I will see if I can sell one of my kidneys or maybe a lobe of my liver. 

But if it all does succeed, I feel I have given my future child a gift: the gift of knowing that sex had nothing to do with his or her conception. SCIENCE! Babies are made with SCIENCE. Not with rutting. Everything you learned in the fourth grade is a lie, including that nonsense about the United States switching over to the metric system. 

Stop trying to make the metric system happen! It's not going to happen!

The lengths that I will go to

Hi! I swore I would never blog again, but oh, the things I will do for Megan McCafferty. See, La McCafferty is one of my favorite authors ever, and I've read a lot of good shit, like Russian shit, French shit, British shit, the Great American shit, etc. I've also read a lot of crap (different from shit), so maybe you shouldn't listen to my taste in books, but mostly I read the good shit. And HRH McCafferty writes the good shit. I never knew that my heart had room for another fictional character after Mr. Darcy, but then came Marcus. Marcus Flutie. Don't you love how his name sounds, the way your lips and teeth come together on the "F" of "Flutie" the same way you'd love for him to nip your lip? The way your tongue darts forward for the "L," hoping to meet unknown warm and wet?

Soon enough, Marcus Flutie had pulled a baby cuckoo maneuver in my heart, pushing out the little Mr. Darcy feelings in my heart-nest and replacing them with his own. Now my heart is filled with nothing but Marcus Flutie, as far as fictional characters go. He is the Alpha, the Krispy, and the Omega. He is the Barry Manilow toilet seat, the empty Danon yogurt container, the lip gloss all over your face after a public bathroom macking session. He is the master of the lasso dickery. He is, simply, Marcus.

And now that the Jessica Darling books have come to an end, Dame McCafferty has undertaken a new endeavor: Bumped, a "funny, dystopian" two-book series about a world in which the only people able to get pregnant are teenagers. Anyone who has seen the endless MTV marathons of "16 and Pregnant" knows that the American teenager is ridiculously fertile. Producing no semen of my own, I feel as if even I could probably get an American teenager pregnant just by baking her a quiche. This story is particularly pertinent to me as I am in my mid-thirties and as barren as James Carville's shiny pate. I've been undergoing fertility treatments that have, to date, made me only fat, cranky, and childless.

I don't know where the story will go, but I do know that I want to read it as soon as possible, which is where you come in. Her Holiness the McCafferty has said she will give away ARCs of Bumped to people who blog about the book. LOOK AT ME, BLOGGING ABOUT THE BOOK!

I'M BLOGGING! I'M BLOGGING! ABOUT THE BOOK!

PRE-ORDER THIS BOOK! BUY THIS BOOK! WILL ALL YOUR WORLDLY POSSESSIONS TO MEGAN MCCAFFERTY!

And now, a tap dance.

*tappity tappity tappity*

Thank you, and good night.