Afterbirth Suit

Today is my birthday. I like birthdays. Just not my birthday.

It reminds me of the day I was born.

The day I was born was the worst day in two people's live – me and my mom's.

Well, also for JFK, because that was around the time he had to decide if he was going to nuke Russia over storing some missiles at various all-inclusive Cuban resorts.

I'm sure JFK wished for something far less dangerous to handle, like getting Marilyn Monroe pregnant.

Nope. He got my mom pregnant. Obviously that's not true. If I were JFK's son, I wouldn't be able to count the number of women I parlayed into my lair on one finger.

My birth resulted in all kinds of emotional and mental damage. I call it the afterbirth. As I was exiting the canal – sounds so romantic, canal, like you're riding a gondola through the watery streets of Venice, sipping olive oil and play-acting the romantic scenes from The Godfather –

As I was exiting the slippery tube-like structure, my mom exhorted, "send him back."

I am in complete agreement. I had a good thing going in the womb. Being on complete life support is a good deal. I can't wait to be on it again.

I blew it. While I was in the womb, I should have drawn up a "do not suscitate" order and pinned it on my mom's vagina, just like the "do not resuscitate" order I'm working on now.

I never actually heard my mom say "send him back", but in later years she told me she said that. I'm glad she was so honest because I felt badly it was just me who was a little let down by the bright lights, screaming, scissors, having to chew my food, losing the automatic climate control, cigarette smoke in the delivery room, getting places and raising myself.

Nevertheless, here I am. I sustain myself with wisdom that I've gained over the years.

Forget about the past, because you can't change it.

Forget about the future, because it's not here yet.

Focus on the present, and bitch and complain all to Hell, because maybe it will change something.

Just maybe.