"Instead of a tiny plaything, a symbolic manifestation of the physical consequences of an emotional choice, one clearly meant for the eyes of desperate new mothers. A tiny little faceless (almost) fetus, swaddled latex in loving four-inch felt, its room temperature “flesh” used, by my own sister no less, as a little tool like phonics to teach a lesson straight and early about the insidious sin of the big goddamned A-word—to teach a child, a little six-year-old who strokes it lovingly with no adult sense whatsoever of its ulterior significance. Of course all this means nothing to me. I’ll never choose."
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