Nice To Meet Me

“Accidents will happen,” or so says my parents whenever they’re caught retelling the story of my conception, which scarily enough sounds a little too much like a bad porno film.

Well anyway, accident or not, nine months later I made my grand debut. Yes, I came into this world crying and screaming on June 13, 1978, but hey lets face it, you’d be doing the exact same thing too if you woke up one day covered in slime, buck naked in a roomful of strangers. Even to this very day, I have a strong dislike of being naked in front of people, which crosses out any chance of me ever being a stripper or taking up streaking as a hobby.

My first day on this earth is not one I can personally remember, which makes me wonder if it was even worth remembering anyway. Most likely, all I did that day was cry, eat, cry some more, poop, and sleep. I’m a very routine person, which might explain why I’ve stuck very closely to that formula for the majority of my life.

I‘m an only child, and when you’re an only child, people will no doubt at some point or another ask you why your parents decided not to have any more children. This is the theory I tend to give them. When you’ve hit perfection there is no need to keep on trying. I have no idea if this is the truth or a lie, and even if I found out otherwise, I think I would just stick with my theory. Growing up, my parents constantly pounded in my mind, that in life you have to learn from your mistakes, which might explain why I’m an only child, but that’s neither here nor there, and I definitely don’t feel like dwelling too long on that thought.