Fifty years ago, when I was nine, I decided not to reproduce. The reasons for this decision were manifold, but they centered on the merits of my parents’ relationship and shortcomings in my reasoning abilities.
This choice at an early age precluded my serious undertaking of courtship, marriage and family, and led me on a solitary path separate and distinct from the programming of mainstream society. It was a good choice.
Looking back on fifty years of a life at variance from the usual, I see a number of flaws in my execution of my end-of-line plan. Most of these involve my failure to take adequate responsibility for contraception in the heat of a lengthy career of profligate inseminations. A more responsible version of me would now devote all of his resources to identifying his fuckups, and caring for any that exist. I won’t do that.
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