The morning of I ate a hearty breakfast and 10mg of Clonazapam. I expected a dreamlike opium haze, instead I was fairly mellow with a two beer buzz. The common high and shared trauma made for a social waiting room. Everyone had ginger ales and patient wives, except one man who was alone and close to passing out. They made him lay down before he left, and I wondered if he was getting the vasectomy on spec, and hoping to use it as a selling point for future partners.
My time came. I was laid out on a gurney staring at a photo of the rain forest. The doctor complemented the smoothness of my balls, then stuck a needle in my taint. “Things might heat up” he warned. Too late. He made small talk and a large incision.
“Is that much of me supposed to be outside” I asked.
“I’ll put it back” He assured.
I would have argued but I cannot imagine a situation where I had less leverage. He glued the rift shut and gave me the low down on the things that I couldn’t do, and the horrors that would occur if I disregarded his instructions. I pulled on my weirdo jock strap, chugged my ginger ale, and went home as non-procreating member of the species. I felt a certain defiant pride in opting for self sterilization…a sort of “You can’t fire me, I quit!” delivered to natural selection itself. The worst was over, or so I thought.