Allow me to officially denounce a common misconception about my situation: I’m not looking forward to this.
I’m not, in fact, blissfully going about my days in an ignorant haze. In my calendar, I didn’t pencil in “Have an abortion” between “Get a pedicure” and “Visit Mom.” I’m not a murderous villain, and I haven’t any hairless cats to pet while hatching my evil plans for infanticide and laughing maniacally.
I hate to disappoint, but it’s not that simple. I’m sad about the whole thing.
