Another one of my friends is brewing up a human being.

As the third girl from my high school group to produce offspring, I’m getting used to pregnancy news being less “friends push friends down the stairs” and more “huzzah for fertility”. I’m more nonchalant about committed relationships and the melding of lives, names and assets. I’m growing accustomed to people becoming actual adults. But that does not mean that this sort of behaviour doesn’t scare the shit out of me.

As I sit here wearing a Super Grover pyjama top in my big room full of useless knick-knacks I cant imagine parting with (my scale model of the golden snitch, for example) to make room for someone’s personal items, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in a different place to some of my friends. Creating life seems so overwhelmingly daunting that I’m getting a headache.

Yes, we all know there are some certain downsides to farming humans. For one, you belly button may change forever. Number two: you can’t eat soft cheeses, amongst other things for the whole nine months (that one’s hitting my preggo pal hard. Here’s an actual quote: “I can’t eat an soft cheese; it’s like living in a third world country”.) And number three is pretty darn unpleasant, in that they have to snip at the skin between the anus and the vagina SO IT DOESN’T TEAR OPEN DURING THE BIRTH LIKE IT’S THE FUCKING BANNER FOOTY PLAYERS RUN THROUGH IN THE GRAND FINAL. I don’t understand why this stuff isn’t outlined in sexual education classes. Nothing is going to convince a girl to use a condom quite like the prospect of having her gooch sliced open.

But for now, let’s leave aside the episiotomies and the feeling like a sow being suckled by ravenous, soulless piglets – what about all the decisions you make at the time that you’ll inevitably grow to regret later on?

The name of said infant, I feel, could very well be one of those rueful decisions. What if you’re going through a phase and name them after your favourite politicians and then realise five years down the track that said politicians were schmucks? What if you think you give your child a “unique” name and only to realise that “unique” name is shared by some Latino pop star who releases songs about lying hips? What if, for some reason, you accidentally think it’s cool to name all your children with the same letter?

How can we trust our current selves to make decisions our future selves will have to deal with? You only need to watch ten minutes of Tattoo Disasters or The Simple Life to realise that decisions can come back to haunt you. Calling your daughter NutMeg is like hiring your best friend’s older sister’s boyfriend’s cousin’s dealer to draw that butterfly on your skin. I don’t want to equate my child with Paris Hilton’s toe rings or Nicole Ritchie’s train-driver-cap-and-boobtube combo. These things were all excellent ideas at the time but upon looking back … well, you just don’t want to.

Naming a child isn’t something you can do flippantly – it’s what that little bastard is going to have to live with. So as much as you might want to call them Thrillhouse, you’ve got to not be a dick and give them something sensible.

The trouble is that I can’t trust that my definition of sensible now will align with what I determine “sensible” is in fifteen years. I worry that the decisions I make now will be big mistakes. After just flicking through my old MySpace page, I am more than aware that Future Dannielle is doomed to an eternity of headshaking at what Past Dannielle deemed appropriate in her time. This is where I was hoping to show you how cringe-worthy Past Dannielle was compared to Present (and incredibly sophisticated) Dannielle in an attempt to illustrate how much we grow to rue our decisions of yesteryear.

You see, I was one of those people on MySpace who filled out those long, indulgent questionnaires you could post (and people would actually read them – those were the golden days. Now that MySpace is chopped liver and Facebook is the queen of summertime, no one wants to read about whether you liked autumn or winter better, and people are too busy to care what questions you could answer by hitting “shuffle” on your five-centimetre-thick ipod.). I have just spent the better part of my Sunday night attempting to gain access to my old MySpace account in an attempt to revive some of the quizzes 16-year-old Dannielle thought the world needed to read and analyse those answers accordingly. Unfortunately I stopped using the email address attached to my MySpace account because it was terrible.

That there, I suppose is an example in itself.

What I’m trying to say is that I can’t trust myself to name a human being when I can’t even burden the shame of a cringe-worthy email address. Because, unfortunately, you can’t ignore an infant for long enough that it becomes deactivated like you can with an email address; apparently that’s some kind of felony, or something.

Today, I was crowned queen of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.

I know what you’re thinking, and yes I’ll admit it, it does sound ridiculous. It sounds like some vaguely impressive but deeply undistinguished fictional title I dreamed up for myself which I had no authority to designate (kind like that time a boy in my grade called himself the “Coldsore King” after a strain of herpes virus set up camp on his lip and began to conquer territory in the northern cheek region leaving a yellowed, crusty trail of destruction). But this is not one of those titles.

This is as legitimate as Tony Abbott knighting Prince Phillip, except my title has actual quantifiable meaning and was earned.

Like Queen Elizabeth apparently owns all the swans (much to my disgust, as my desire to eat one would supposedly land me in some very hot water with the old bird – yeah, no doubt we’ll come back to the “I want to eat a swan” thing in the not too distant future but that’s another story for another time), I have some kind of jurisdiction over pieces of processed chicken mushed into the shape of a brachiosaurus. I’m not saying that I own them, but they are my subjects now. What that means, only time will tell.

How might this happen, you may ask? It’s simple. I spent my Sunday afternoon moulding a prehistoric scene out of vegetables and gravy, embedded a few choice Dino Snacks and posted it on social media. Some people question to legitimacy of the Internet, claiming it is the breeding grounds of meaningless egotistical frivolity, but this is an exception. This noble action caught the eye of Steggles, and they decided to award me not only a month’s supply of Dino Snacks, but also bestowed a title so grand I will be adding it to my name.

Like recipients of the Order of Australia Medal chuck an “OAM” on their business cards and neurosurgeons whack a “Dr” before their name , I will add my own honours. Dannielle Maguire, Queen of Dino Snacks, overlord of the dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. It’s a title I should be proud of. While my roommate worked on her assignments to become a clinical psychologist, I moulded mountains out of mushy peas. While people helped find abandoned puppy dogs new homes, I was propping up broccoli trees. While scientists were researching a cure for cancer, I was fashioning a goddamned erupting volcano out of a goddamned sweet potato. In the end, who made the world a better place?

I mean, this is the greatest achievement of my life. That scene will be the most glorious thing I’ll have ever created, and I’ll remind my future children of that every day. As much as I have faith in my ability to brew up a top-notch human, nothing I could never produce fruit from my womb ever top that – suddenly, I understand how Jesus’ mum must have felt. In comparison, everything else is mediocre at best. “Yes Dannielle Junior,” I’ll tell my child, “it’s all well and good that you’ve disproved the theory of relativity, but have you ever been crowned the queen of dinosaur-shaped chicken products? No.”

There’s many a lesson that can be learned from my ascent to power. For one, you should play with your food. Number two, never listen to the voice in your head telling you greatness is out of reach. Because it’s not. Some people have greatness thrust upon them, while others get up out of bed and boil greatness in a saucepan, scoop success out of a food processor and model honour on a plate. It’s like the saying goes: good things happen to those who make gravy with specific viscosity specifications to mimic lava. Success will come if you’re true to yourself and your passions (for me, that passion is processed chicken).

I must admit, I’m feeling pretty damned empowered. This morning I awoke from my slumber as a common girl, but tonight, the head that touches my pillows will be that of a ruler, a noblewoman, a deity. I feel there is nothing else I cannot do if I put my mind to it: I can tackle the world.

Now all that’s left to do is forge a throne out of chicken offcuts.

In my role, I’m constantly coming into contact with people whose jobs are cooler than mine.

Police seem to have it sweet: they don’t have to worry about what they’re going to wear every day, they get to carry guns and they have something to say over a two-way other than banging on about that shit pie at the last servo. These guys even get to appear in parades.

I really like wearing riding boots to work (apparently it’s no longer acceptable to wear riding boots and sparkle sleeves whilst draped in a blanket at work: what kind of world is this?!) so I wouldn’t mind being an agronomist. They also get to lean on fence posts and Hilux trays, which isn’t something just any old person could do.

ICU nurses get to wear scrubs and carry clipboards, which is a combo of ultimate comfort and don’t-mess-with-me-I’m-a-big-deal that works on so many levels.

Teachers get holidays. Lots. Of. Holidays.

Politicians get to carry briefcases and have more than Nutella, cashews and a butter knife inside.

Doctors get to have pagers without having to be in the ninties.

And don’t even get me started on fantastic it would be to be a judge.

It just seems that everyone has it cooler than I do. Better outfits, ripper accessories and so many excuses for manila folders: the grass is so much greener on their sides. It makes me picture myself in their shoes. Last week it was a gynaecologist after watching The Mindy Project, this week it’s a tourism executive. These flimsy whims of mine have me wondering: what else could I actually do with my life?

I mean, I’m barely into my second decade, you’d think there’s something I could re-train for. Unfortunately, the wealth of knowledge I’d built up after I peaked in primary school has been replaced by thoughts I have everyday such as: “if you spell your name wrong over the phone, that email will never make it into your inbox”; “if in doubt, control, alt delete”; “this is how you get ants” and the classic “try not to swear in this interview”. All that I’m left with is the historical facts I’ve gleamed from a lifetime of watching The Simpsons, the difference between a simile and metaphor (I once got into a heated argument with a poor work experience kid about it, and would have literally rubbed his nose in it had my boss not have been around) and some Spicegirls lyrics. Getting back into uni doesn’t seem plausible, so I’d have to approach a job with the goods I’ve already got.

But it’s a tough sell when your only marketable skills are your personality and being able to make fart noises with your neck when it’s sweaty. The only thing I’d be qualified to do is to line up people’s highlighters in a neat fashion that also replicates a rainbow.

So what else could I pad out my resume with? From my past working history I have gained the knowledge of how to pick a good onion, that being overly polite to an already-engaged customer will have hilarious results that won’t get you in trouble with management, how to kick arse in a junior cattle judging comp (“I picked number three because it has good, even fat distribution, which I like to see, and a nice thick base at the tail here” ) and that chairobics is a thing. It’s not really a narrative that makes much sense, and isn’t likely to get me very far.

Thankfully, I like my job.

I get to use puns on the regular, highlight things with different colours and have the occasional conversation with a deputy premier about the NASA remix tracks he added to his road trip playlist. Instead of dedicating my life to just one task, like studying the movements of black–tailed cockatoos, I get to have a taste of everything. My job is like being at a really fancy party where the canapés are more than Jatz, kabana and Bega cubes: I get to sample a wide mix of everything. My career essentially can be equated to one of those “taster” dip packs with hummus AND tzatziki. I get to find out about methane gas emitted into the atmosphere, talk funding agreements and meet the Arlenes and the Joyces of the world who just want to make people smile with their baked goods. And while sometimes I’ll want to hog the metaphorical party pie tray, there’s plenty more on the table to keep me from hiding in the coat check room. I may not get to carry a taser, but I’ve got it pretty damn good. So I’m thinking I’ll just stick with it, no matter how tempting carrying a stethoscope around my neck can be.

Well, at least until I answer my phone with “I wake up with Today” and that creepy block of cash comes to my door (he actually has an Instagram account, you might want to add him).