Since this is my first opinion piece ever, my instincts told me to enter with a proverbial “bang” and write a polemic that would get readers to quit their jobs, question their firmest-held beliefs, protest NAFTA … you get the idea.

Unfortunately, my instincts have decidedly been the scapegoat for all my woes since elementary school, so instead, I’ve elected to bore everyone by discussing abortion (you may turn the page now).

See, prior to recent meditations, I could never pinpoint the reason why I’m so adamantly against such an institution. My militantly Catholic childhood robbed me of any opportunity to currently be a religious young buck, and I certainly don’t have any interest in saving babies — the last time I tried to hold one of those little abominations, it took a dump all over my forearms. So I figured that, like all of my other convictions, such a strong disdain must stem from my violently selfish tendencies, and, lo and behold, it does!

Let me back up: I’m not getting laid. I don’t understand it. My beloved Grandma once remarked that I had “sexy eyes,” so (disregarding whatever hidden Oedipus complex began a-brewing on that fine day), it follows that all kinds of smoking hot chicks must constantly be knocking on my door, right? Wrong.

My periodic romances were enough to sustain me throughout high school, and I figured that this dog would finally have his day when college came around. After all, in another unsolicited affront to good manners, an aging nurse practitioner warned me during a checkup to use condoms during the “four, five-guys-on-one-girl” shenanigans that supposedly run rampant on campuses across America. So I naturally assumed that Binghamton University would prove to be a festival of wanton and impersonal hook-ups. Wrong again.

Either I genuinely just suck (which is reasonable), or all of the elderly women in my life are liars. Of course, I did fib in telling the aforementioned practitioner that I was sexually active — because apparently it’s crucial that a menopausal and graying matron should view me as a stud, so it’s probably a wash.

But I digress. It might be worth mentioning that my coping skills are not the healthiest in the world. Once a man realizes that his methods of sexual stimulation have seldom changed since he was 8 years old and his baby sitter caught him hiding behind a recliner, entranced by Rebecca Romijn’s dirty parts in a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, an ugly sort of bitterness tends to mature.

Which leads us to why abortion — and birth control, for the sake of consistency — should be outlawed. I am altogether ’tang-less, and if I can’t regularly enjoy sex, then you shouldn’t be able to enjoy it without spending the next 18 years of your life in financial ruin. Oh, it’s selfish, but selfishness has always worked for me (get it?).

— Greg Narajka is a freshman English major. If any babes want to turn him into a liberal, he guesstimates that they will only have to sacrifice a total of four seconds … and maybe some dignity.