“You’ll change your mind when you get older.” This is what people are always telling me when I state, firmly and without question, that I don’t want children. “You’ll change your mind,” they say, shaking their heads and clucking their tongues, as if somehow getting older will suddenly make me want to tie myself down to one person, grow a parasitic-like life form in my body for an excruciating nine months during which I will probably vomit a lot and have to pee every five minutes, gain weight I will probably never lose, and then actually have to birth the thing. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that my vagina, if not me, does not want to be subjected to something that large trying to push its way out. Hell no.