I always know that I’m really, really falling down on the blogging when my mother starts sending me emails asking when I’ll post again.

Writing like this has a sort of circadian rhythm to it. For weeks on end I’ll be bursting with fresh information, dying to throw the details of my life all over the internet. And then, all of a sudden, I’ll be downtrodden or bored or depressed about my stupid job*, which renders me incapable of formulating thoughts well enough to make small talk with the counter guy at the Mini-Mart, let alone write something that other people (all 5 of you) would want to read.

*Really, really, really depressed. Hey! Anyone want to hire me?

Anyway, I called home yesterday, but instead of reaching my parents, I ended up in a lengthy conversation with my brother. It was surprising; I do not usually have lengthy conversations with my brother. I’d always thought that this had something to do with his being phone-averse, combined with our both being busy and important, but after ten minutes on the phone with him, I remembered that there’s another reason we rarely talk: He’s always telling me shit that I really, really don’t want to hear.

So when I finally asked, after five minutes of small talk, “So, uh… what’s new with you?”, I shouldn’t have been that surprised when he replied:

“Oh, not much… I’m going to become a sperm donor.”

“What?!” I said, coming to a standstill in the middle of the sidewalk and nearly causing a five-person pileup among the fast-moving pedestrians.

“I said--”

“Ew, no, I heard you! But why?”

“Uh, for the money?” my brother said, as though it should be obvious that fathering untold numbers of anonymous children was a way better way to earn cash than, say, work-study.

“But what about all the kids they’d make using your… your…” --I couldn’t say “sperm” –“…uh, donation?”

“What about them?”

“Well I mean, what if the mothers tried to contact you later in life?”

“That’s why I’d donate anonymously,” he said, sounding infinitely wise and patient in the face of my near-hysteria at the possibility that our family’s DNA would be spread across the country in a Johnny-Appleseed-style campaign for mass impregnation.

“But don’t you think that might cause problems for you later on in life? What if you want to get married, and you have to tell the girl that you might have, like, 50 kids running around all over the country?” My voice was a little too loud. A passing group of high school students looked at me like I’d gone insane.

He seemed to consider it for a second, then suggested, “Um, maybe I wouldn’t have to tell her?”

“That’s sketchy,” I said.

“But they give you $50 to spooge in a cup!” he said.

Ew. Ew, ew, ew.

“Did you tell mom about this?” I asked, certain that she would put an end to this madness.

“Yeah,” he said, “I think she’s cool with it.”

Oh my God.

Of course, I have no control over how my brother chooses to make his money. I realize this, really, I do. And somewhere inside, I know that I should just be glad that he’s not robbing banks. Or working at Chippendale’s. Or whoring himself to wealthy dowagers in exchange for cold, hard cash and a weekend pied-a-terre on the Upper East Side.

So yes, I should be glad. Proud, even.

But I just can’t.

Because to do so would mean acknowledging that my brother – my little, baby brother, who only a few short years ago was reduced to tears when I told him that our dog had licked his baloney sandwich before he ate it – is now a grown man capable of making babies.

…No.

No, no, no!