Scientists say it’s impossible to remember things that occurred during the first couple years of life. I am the exception. I remember the day I was born in horrifying detail. I remember because it was the first time my life flashed before my eyes. I remember being thrust from the safety of my warm cavern into the freezing hands of who I could only assume was my executioner. He shined a death ray into my eyes that im sure must have planted the seed of brain cancer deep inside my pineal gland. He sliced my belly cord with the same primal brutality with which a lion severs the jugular of his prey. My blood spewed across the floor. Luckily another doctor who must’ve been well learned in the art of tying off water baloons saw his colleagues murderous look of insanity and lept into action tying my cord off before I bled out on the spot. My savior must have gone to call for help to stop his mad medical partner leaving me alone with the mad man once again and he beat me ruthlessly as if he’d caught me sleeping with his daughter (which I later in life indeed did do, partly as revenge, partly because she was years older, extremely hot, and supplied my reefer habit) then he tossed me under a heat lamp like a pan of fried chicken at a Bob Evans all you can eat buffet. I’m also certain his roughing me up caused permanent back and muscular problems. It’s important to note that I wasn’t able to walk for close to two years after our first meeting. (His daughter wasn’t able to walk for almost two days after ours, hehe) Had my thumb not found its way near my mouth distracting me I may be able to recount the attack in much greater detail. PTSD may also be partly to blame. I must have repressed much of the experience as the trauma was too great and my fragile mind couldn’t bear the reality of it. I was 5 minutes old, already had hypothermia, was sliced open, had been beaten to a pulp, nearly choked on god knows what, been infected with brain cancer, and was suffering early signs of PTSD causing extreme anxiety, emotional outbursts, uncontrollable crying and ADD. This was just the beginning. Within minutes I was put into a straight jacket like blanket wrap to calm my trauma induced outbursts and to prevent me from protecting myself against the horrors yet to come. Next a sexy but sinister nurse scooped me up like a poop filled diaper she was scared to touch. I thought she would pinch my toes with her thumb and forefinger and carry me upside down while holding her nose. She made her way to another lady who was laying in a bed looking sickly and as if she had just rolled out of a cardboard box filled with wool blankets on a humid summer day. She was surely homeless. Covered in sweat, her hair resembled Medusas. Before I could react the homeless woman shoved her sweaty breast into my face nearly smothering me. I can’t speak of what followed. It’s too dark for a blog and my shame is too great. Let’s just say it was similar to a person being kidnapped and forced to take heroin. As much as they know it’s wrong and initially fight it, natural biology causes the person to crave and need it even once they are given a choice and set free. I like them, was a victim. Over the following days I was pumped with this breast heroin, poked and prodded, had needles injecting me with autism, cancer, probably herpes as well. At least thats where I tell my girlfriend it came from. What came next was torture. My homeless caretaker handed me off to a group of masked intruders. I was taken into a small torture dungeon where they pulled a knife on me. They asked me questions in a language I wasn’t familiar with. Perhaps they were testing me. Either way, my lack of answers didn’t satisfy them so they pulled my loin cloth back and without hesitation sliced the tip of my wanker clean off. Worried that they may cut the whole thing off, I told them all that I knew. I screamed and begged for mercy. It worked. They put the knife away. This was how I spent the first days of my life. Feel lucky you can’t remember.
So, as a child I was somewhat of a writing prodigy. Or so I was led to believe. In reality I was the only kid with such a non-existent social life that I had relatively enormous amounts of time to put into my writing. In reality I shat out mediocre short stories on paper while most kids my age shat out other, less socially handicapped and less bully provoking things with paper such as spitballs and notes with check boxes scribbled in hopes of hooking up with whichever girl had matured the most that year. Not that I didn’t pass notes. I did. I even included check boxes occassionally until I realized the “yes” box wasn’t necessary for a lad of my social standing. In fact I think the majority of my notes ended up plastered to my forehead, or at least shreds of them rolled into hurtful little humiliation balls saturated with shame and the spittle from the girls’ mouths I so yearned to connect with. Did I occassionally peel the spit wads off my face and sneak them into my mouth so I could justify saying that we had “swapped spit”? Come on now, that would be weird. Right? So anyway, I loved to read and I loved to write. I loved the classics; Steinbeck, Dickinson, Stevenson, but above all the man who took me on adventures on the mighty Mississippi. The man who sent me back in time to roll in the grass laughing my ass off as Adam and Eve tried to knock the moon from the sky by hurling rocks. Samuel Clemmons aka Mark Twain. My writing was a lot like his. That is if you took his writing, jumbled up the words, fed them to an owl who also ate a few mice (because I’m sure owls can’t live soley on literature, no matter how great it may be) and that owl were to regurgitate little mice and twain pellets, then one were to dissect said pellets and throw the findings on paper, my writing was like his in that way. But I won’t brag anymore. My grandmother always said that bragging is like a dog licking his gonadz and expecting a treat. I’m not quite sure what the hell that had to do with bragging but most of her stories had to do with dogs or genitalia or both. It’s people like her who motivate me to write. She was quite racist. Every year I’d cut a picture of Halle Berry out of a magazine and put it in my wallet to show Grandma as my girlfriend just to get a rise out of her. She would curse and mumble something about Poodles licking Rottweilers privates and I’d chuckle like an evil villain as I dissapeared under the dinner table to tie her orthopedic shoes together by the laces. Somehow year after year no one noticed this and every year upon getting up to change her mush filled diaper or whatever old people do after chowing down a large meal, she would fall face first into whoever was unfortunate enough to have the seat next to her. I realize this seems awful and heartless but you have to understand, she was a racist bitch. The fact that she was my elder and a full century old was no excuse for her buying KFC and grape soda in case I did bring Halle home for Christmas dinner. So a face plant and a family lecture on getting velcro shoes if she couldn’t stop tying her own laces together was justified I think. She has since passed away, God rest her soul. But in case of the second coming or a zombie apocolypse I tied her laces together in the casket. She also rests with an 8×10″ screenshot of Halle Berry in that awesome nude scene with Billy Bob Thornton, placed gently under her frail hands. The lady at Walgreens was hesitant to print the photo for me but when I explained it was a gift for my Grandmammy she happily obliged. In retrospect that was really strange. Anyway, given my love for writing, my aforementioned mediocre skills and the fact that Great Grandma Eileen was one of the more normal members of my extensive family, I figure I have a never ending well of interesting subjects from which to draw my stories. And these stories will be relayed to you through this blog. In the interest of those involved, I will change names, dates, places, and possibly facts entirely. Other than in those cases, almost every word will be true honest reflections of my life, family, friends, and imagined events.