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At the very least they didn't tell you how you were conceived. There is nothing quite like hearing about the acrobatic exploits of ones own mother. I had the benefit of growing up with an asexual mother and an alcoholic step father and thus, never had to endure listening to mom's head slam into the wall or any sort of depraved grunting noises. Some of my friends, however, were hardly so lucky and almost nightly drifted off to sleep accompanied by the lurid sounds of awkward middle-aged passion.

I count my blessings.
I was in the process of checking out the University of Chicago. I knew that I had born in the Laying Inn Hospital there while my father was finishing his medical degree, and that my mother had been working for the school.

So, we're driving around campus and my father was telling me stories about when my mother and he were dorm parents for the foreign exchange students dorm, and some of the...interesting students.

As we're driving along, he points out a window on the ground floor and says: "See that window?"

Me: "Yes."

My father: "And that's the room you were conceived in!"

Me: "Ugh."

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