"When did I eat celery?" I was thinking to myself as the remains of my stomach floated in its porceline grave. I can not believe this. After nine years I decided to go down this road again. What the hell was I thinking? If I had just listened to the transmission the little oracle inside me was trying to send to my peanut brain, I would have followed my first mind.

"Hey Gi-Gi. What's up?"

"I'm not taking "No." for an answer. We are having a a girls night out and the group is not complete without you. You're getting out and having some fun for a change."

"I'm having plenty fun chatting with my TB2 fam on my lap top, in my bed, under the comforter."

"You're such an effin' square! You don't even know them. I think all ya'll crazy as hell. Get yo punk ass up and put on your "I-won't-have-to-buy-my-own-drink-all-night" suit and let's go!"

I responded with an "Aight damn!" to finally end her relentless tirade.

So, again ignoring the oracle's transmission, I got dressed and met her at The Plaza. Its an upscale (bourgeoisie really), afro-centric, networking lounge. Really only professionals frequent it. So this was not your run-of-the-mill shake yo ghetto booty club. I made up my mind to show my face and have one drink then be out. Boy was I wrong.

My one drink obligation turned into three. After the second drink, I asked Melissa (the designated driver) to take me home and she could spend the night at my place. Everybody else was cool in our group, so she agreed. I downed my last Sex In The City martini and went to the ladies' room.

On my way back up the dimly lit corridor, I saw him. He saw me. My heart felt like it was playing polo in my chest as he approached me. It was just my damn luck he was over 6 feet, smooth & chocolate as a Hershey's and built like a mountain of hot basalt.

All of a sudden, some unseen gravitational pull scooped me up into its vortex and threw me into his arms, like someone dumping the contents of a wheelbarrow into the eye of a tornado. I mean I had no control of what was happening. He picked me up by my waist and backed us into the men's washroom. We made it to one of the black marble stalls. He sat on the top of the toilet's tank lid and pulled me onto his lap. Its funny that I don't remember removing clothes, I just remember his entrance inside me, full and strong. I most remember having the type of climax that could relocate your spine.

So here I am 8 weeks later, free from HIV (thank the good Lord above ) but suffering from morning sickness. My youngest child is nine and at 36 I am pregnant with a man's baby whose name I don't even know. And to this day, his name doesn't matter to me. Shit, I'm having a hard enough time trying to make this baby matter to me. How do I answer the inevitable question that will haunt me and this baby for the rest of our God-given days, "Who is his father?" What am I supposed to say..."I don't know"? I think the hell not. Now that would make me look stupid wouldn't it?

I am now faced with the decision between murder and moral responsibility. I know you may be wondering how I could even consider one over the other. But, I'm also sure you've never been in a situation like mine. My children don't know, nor the rest of my family. I'm the back bone of my siblings. Even when my husband died, I was expected to bounce back with no consequence, hell I had to help everyone else get through it. For this reason, I am alone. I must clean up this mess on my own. My family would be so disappointed in me. So, what do I do?

"You have to look inside your heart. Your heart will tell you what's right."

"You mean I paid four-hundred fifty dollars to lay on this ugly, uncomfortable, art deco piece of shit couch for an hour for that cheesy, commercial bull crap?!? You can go to hell and give me my effin' money back before you leave."

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This piece was created for the Serendipitous Nouns Game from the Discussion Board utilizing the following words:

oracle, polo, basalt, celery, transmission, wheelbarrow