Staring dully at the distant horizon, Dirt drew mightily on his cigar. He squinted at me, then squinted back at the horizon. I could tell something profound was bubbling up.
"So. What chick are you most glad you didn't knock up?"
I gagged on smoke. Ignoring the presence of his toddler, I mentally ran through my sexual history, which could easily be recorded on one side of a 3x5 index card. Including annotated histories.
Those women would all have been disasters. Can I have a massive tie for first place?
"Can I have a massive tie for first place?"
"No. You gotta choose one."
But how? By what criteria do I narrow the field? There are the chicks who drove me crazy vs. the chicks who are themselves crazy. The women who would be horrible mothers vs. the women who would be horrible parental partners. This is diabolical. There's no right answer. Pressed, I chose the one who became a religious fanatic. She's crazy and drove me crazy, and there'd be a lifelong battle over the child's soul. Seems reasonable.
Speaking of God, thank God that Dirt didn't think to ask which ex I would have preferred to knock up. Shudder. I'm springing that one on him next time.