The first time she told me she was pregnant she was just making it up. Chicks do that, I guess, just to fuck with you. But the second time I saw the little blue pee-stick in the trash and I knew the shitstorm was coming. In no way did being pregnant slow down her vodka and opiate-consuming needs– on the contrary, the stress of the situation made her want to take more. We would be fucking, she on top of me on a little– you know those fucking chair-mattress things, in our friends’ guest bedroom, and suddenly some combination of pills and hormones would kick in and she’d start mumbling and crying, talking about how much she loved me and needed me, and if I ever went away she’d kill herself. Then she’d get a wild look in her eye, piss herself (on my cock,) and pass out on top of me. When she passed out suddenly it was like a corpse– there was no way you were getting her up again. She would piss the bed every night– we were staying with a bunch of friends (even though we both had perfectly viable apartments,) and she would kind of moan and burble and it would spout out of her while she slept. You couldn’t wake her up. Every night I would have to just roll over the corpse, rip the sheets out from under her and drag them down to the basement laundry as the urine on my pajamas cooled against my skin.
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