At first, the urge to buy insulation and grapefruit will become irresistible. Sitting in a boring meeting, your will suddenly find your doodles populated by pigs and piglets wielding paint cans and brushes. You will dream of a parade of flamingos handing out cotton candy. A water faucet will drip, drip, drip but all you will hear is pink, pink, pink.
The other colours will not die, other parents (parents with boys, that is) and the childless will still experience the fullness of the world they were born into. But parents with girls will find all they see slowly, inexorably fade into reds and whites until eventually it merges into a creamy, confectionery haze of that dread shade, the one that haunts their living nightmare, unspeakable and unavoidable.
The mewling and whimpering of your infant daughter will closely be followed by your own as the world collapses into a mono-chromatic trauma. Huddled in the corner, shivering, you will cling vainly to recollections of greens, yellows, blues. You might feign madness in a misguided attempt to deceive that vile colour, to somehow trick it into returning to its place in the spectrum but that would only be the final sign of your own true madness. You will be lost to the world, present in form and shape but beyond the reach of salvation. No anger, no sadness will reach you in the end for those words and all others will have lost their meaning. All words, that is, save for one.