let’s talk about your parents having sex

let’s talk.
not about your job. not about your problems.
let’s talk about something real.
let’s talk about your parents.
and the one thing they did that actually mattered.
let’s talk about them having sex.

that’s the only reason you even exist

it wasn’t a storybook romance. it wasn’t a cosmic event planned by the universe. it was a physical act. a collision of biology. maybe it was loving. maybe it was clumsy. maybe they were just bored on a tuesday night. it doesn’t matter. the point is, it happened. and then nine months later, you happened.

that’s the whole story. every book you’ve read, every song you love, every anxious thought that keeps you up at 3am. it’s all just a long, extended consequence of that one, single, physical moment. you are the walking, talking proof of an act you’d rather not imagine. you are a souvenir from someone else’s night.

so why does the thought make you cringe

you cringe because it destroys the illusion. in your head, they aren’t people. they are parents. a function. a utility. they exist to raise you, to feed you, to be the static, unchanging background of your life. the thought of them having sex makes them real. it turns them from archetypes back into animals. with bodies and smells and urges. just like you. and you hate that.

the cringe is a system failure. it’s the sound your carefully constructed reality makes when it hits a fundamental truth it cannot process. the revulsion isn’t about them. it’s about you. it’s the terrifying realization that you didn’t just appear. you were made. you are a product. you are the direct result of the very same messiness and biology that you spend your entire life trying to rise above.

so think about it.
or don’t.
it changes nothing.
the event is over.
you’re it.