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Worst Seven Minutes Of Your Life

Welcome to Dunkin’ Donuts, would you like a crueler? A donut? To find out if you’re irresponsible semi-girlfriend is pregnant in our bathroom? This was my reality. I was an immature 23-year-old, with the world in front of me and no decisions that were more important than ‘tacos or pizza’. But when my girlfriend was three weeks late… then a month late… then TWO MONTHS LATE, I quickly realized that this life, as I loved it, could be over. We swung over to the CVS and bought that bastard of a package with a smiling woman sitting next to her husband. I’m sure they hadn’t just had sex on a washing machine while blackout drunk, opting against condoms because she was on the fucking patch. And after purchasing said test, we hopped in my car and headed to the first place with a bathroom that we could find. It turned out to be a Dunkin’ Donuts in the middle of Boston. We walked in, filled with a shame that no one else could understand, and the two of us awkwardly entered the bathroom together. Our first challenge? My lady friend wanted me to be there for this but couldn’t pee with me in the room. It was a disgusting and seemingly never-ending catch-22 that resulted in blasting the sink, turning on the hand dryer, and looking into the corner of the room as if I was in a timeout.

That was when the first knock came… before we even had urine on the stick. My girlfriend finally opened up like a sprinkler on a hot day, and then the real wait began. I can’t even begin to tell you what was going through my mind for the next seven minutes. I felt like maybe I should hold her and tell her that I’ll raise this child and marry her this weekend. But then I felt that really I should try and lock her in the bathroom, leave enough money for an abortion and move to Colorado under my new alias: Condom Wearington. Then came another knock. This time I instinctually yelled out “we’re BUSY” before realizing we were in the women’s room. And, as luck would have it, an older black woman that was intent on setting the world record for bitchy prying questions was on the other side of the door. So now, in between my panic-dreams about home abortion kits, I have to answer every god damn question about what I’m doing in the women’s room. I don’t know if it was the fact that I was holding a stick that was dripping with my girlfriend’s urine, or if it was because baby names started popping into my head like a song that you just hate, but I finally swung open the door and yelled, “I’m in here trying to figure out if my girlfriend of two months is pregnant. PLEASE PEE ELSEWHERE.”

Without a beat I slammed the door shut and locked it again. At this point I was feeling more confident, as if yelling at that old women gave me my swag back. I looked straight into my soon-to-be-ex-girlfriends eyes and I told her I don’t want a baby. I can’t even take care of myself and most of the time I end up using dirty silverware because I can’t figure out how my dishwasher works. I told her I’d pay for anything she would need, and I told her that we’d be better off aborting a thousand kids than ever keeping this one. And just as I was blue in the face from telling her how much I already hated this unborn incubus, she held up the stick with a smile. It was a miracle. She wasn’t pregnant. She was, however, horrified with my lack of decency. So the girl that I had barely been dating and almost knocked up on her washing machine threw her pregnancy test out and told me to fuck off. So fuck off I did. And I took with me a few very simple lessons. First, that the birth control patch is bullshit. And second, you’re still expected to drive a girl home after she dumps you in a Dunkin’ Donuts women’s room…. even if her pee is on your hands.

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