I haven’t been able to write because ma thought I was pregnant. I had cramps so ma took me to the doctor after she called the cops on my Manuel Noriega, my Panamanian boyfriend. Ma told the doc I must be pregnant but the doc said that’s impossible because I’m a boy and only girls can get pregnant. Ma rolled her eyes and said that figures. I think she was hoping I’d have a real girl. Ma was a little down and walked out of the emergency room, swiped a Red Bull from a Candy Striper, and poured it in her coffee. Now, I have prepartum depression. Or, I have another kind of depression–the kind that leaves a big black hole in a body that was once filled with life (or the possibility of love).