And I'm nothing but a voice over the phone, deep in space. You speak between tides of crying, telling me you fear something grows inside you. You, like most people, have no business reproducing. So, kill it. Kill the fucking thing and hit the passenger eject button. Most children should be killed before they're spat out into this world. Spare me your moral qualms. You had no moral qualms about spreading your legs for a boy-man still living with his parents and who doesn't have the strength to defend you against unjust criticism. And what the hell is moral about giving birth to another ruin you aren't prepared to raise and love, regarding it as a burden, an inconvenience, the final death of all your dreams you yourself have been slowly murdering for years?

So kill it. Kill it now. I'll come down from outer space. I'll go with you and hold your free hand while you kill it with your killing hand. I'll put my voice in your ear and hope it sounds as soothing as it does from outer space. I'll tell you, "there, there. It's dead. You're gonna be okay. We're all gonna be okay."

We'll all be okay.