I Gave Birth to Aliens.

No, not really, obvs.

But I could have. You don’t know. It’s totally possible that I gave birth to aliens. I mean, it’s not entirely unbelievable. It might have happened.

 

Here’s what how it went down.

Last week I developed this painful pimple-thing on the back of my neck. I know, I know, TMI. But you guys, this is the story, so hang with me before you get all puke-ish, okay? Anyway, this was like a MOUNTAIN ZIT, if you know what I mean. If you don’t have a clue as to what I’m referring, then fuck off, because that means your skin is great and therefore I cannot possibly be friends with you as I’d be walking around in a cloud of skin-envy. You don’t want me to envy you, right? So if you haven’t ever had a mountain zit, I suggest you either go get one immediately, or STFU about it.

 

So, I Gave Birth to Aliens.

Because when you have a mountain zit, that’s what it feels like. I assumed I had been probed by a Martian from Mars, or a Jedi from another galaxy far, far away, or an alien from the movie Aliens (plural because the second film was better than the first one). I just kept rubbing at it, and feeling it, and yelling at it, and it kept growing. And since it was on the back of my neck, I couldn’t even see it without doing that double-mirror trick where you look at the item in the reflection of one mirror which is showing you the reflection of the actual item you wish to see. The item in question was a gigantic red boulder the size of my fist. Or maybe thereabouts. It’s hard to judge when you’re in a panic.

 

I Gave Birth to Aliens, but not right away.

Because that bitch drilled down into my spine and seized my muscles so that I became a puppet. It forced me to eat vanilla frosting STRAIGHT OUT OF THE PACKAGE. It made me drink a bottle of wine. It made me get into an argument with my ex. It made me do all sorts of things I would NEVER, EVER do without having been under alien control.

 

{*Batting my eyelashes in sincerity to prove I’m ALL FOR REALZ.*}

 

There I was, invaded by body snatchers.

And I Gave Birth to Aliens. Well, not yet. I’m almost to that part of the story. Hang with me. As I began to question my “strange” behavior (and as my family began to notice the doorknob sticking out of my neck), it became clear that this was no ordinary blemish. It was definitely not a pimple or a zit. It looked more like an apple tree. But without the branches or leaves or roots. So then probably just the apple part. My kids were like, “OMG, SPIDER BITE!”

 

We went nuts.

We looked all over for the little fucker, but to no avail. It had done its dirty work and fled to an alternate dimension or planet or whatever. I guess it wasn’t interested in the babies it left behind. Just one more reason to hate spiders (as if there weren’t enough reasons already: Read Spiders are Scary. It’s Okay to be Afraid of Them. *UPDATED*). Out of breath from our search, we sat around the living room, collecting our thoughts. With no spider present on which to lay blame, the disappointment was tangible. There was so much unhappiness that it was jostling against my alien-infested body for room. That shit HURT!

 

My hubz, offering condolences and squeezing my hand affectionately since he knew I might be dying soon, said, “You’ve been struck by a smooth criminal.”

 

 

My daughter, a tiny squirt, jumped into my lap, unafraid of potentially bursting my shell of a body out which would likely explode tiny, baby aliens. She patted my shoulder and said, “Maybe it was a MAGIC spider.”

 

My adult son quipped, “I’ll be mighty disappointed if you wake up tomorrow without any super powers, Mom.”

 

“I don’t WANT super powers,” I said. “I don’t want all that great responsibility that’s supposed to come with it. I want to live a life free of aliens and spiders, a life full of peace and Coca-Cola. I don’t want to argue with my ex or eat vanilla frosting ever again.”

 

My hubz just looked at me for a moment. Then he asked, “What about wine? You didn’t mention the wine.”

 

Oh. Well, that may not have been the aliens making me do that.

We can’t be sure, though. So I told him to STFU and help me figure out a plan. I mean, I had a funeral to get under way, since I was obviously DYING over here. There was lots of arguing then, with terms like “exaggeration” and “drama-queen” and “hypochondriac” being tossed around. I don’t know what all happened next, because I kind of lost track of things and slid into a pain-pill-induced coma.

 

The next morning, I Gave Birth to Aliens.

But first I drove my son to work. I took my daughter with me to the doctor. I thought maybe she could write a report on how tough it was to lose a mother to Martian babies, and she could win scholarships and go to college and be a successful litigator who sues Abercrombie & Fitch right out of existence. I was just explaining these plans to my daughter as we sat waiting for the doctor to come see how far along the pregnancy had advanced, when he waltzed in and announced, “It’s not a tumor.”

 

 

Just kidding.
The doctor didn’t say that. But he totally could have because it fit the story and would have been fucking hilarious. Nope. Instead he said, “It might not be a spider bite. It might just be a boil. Regardless, now it’s abscessed and I’m going to put you on a heavy-duty anti-biotic for seven days.” Then he donned a glove, prodded the pregnant lump, and said, “Make that TEN days.”

 

The mountain is mostly gone.

Just a blackened bit of infection and a ring of scabby material remains to remind me where my alien babies came out. Because I’ll be goddamned if I admit to having grown a motherfucking boil like some freaky witch-lady. You guys totally know what really happened, right?

 

I Gave Birth to Aliens.