The Birthday Post: Or how I came into this damn world, and a whole bunch of other shit that I wrote against my better judgement.

This is a picture of me fresh from the factory, give or take a week or two. I've got the whole red baby thing going on, too. Pictured with me is the second youngest in my family, my beautiful sister "D". She was five and thought that I was the neatest little play doll that my parents ever got her. She used to get in my little pen with me and stare at me. Of course, I can't remember any of it, but there were witnesses. "D" used to change my diapers and started right when I was out of the box. My mom would get real scared when she'd start pushing the safety pin through my cloth diaper, but my sis, at five, could do it all herself and never stuck me once. She did a magnificent job, let me just say. You don't know how many older guys I had to fight to defend my sister's honor. She had them all lined up, too. She married an older rich guy, so I succeeded in warding off the riff raff.

I turned 34 today, well, yesterday. I gotta stop bloggin at midnight. I was born on May the 8th, 1972 in Maricopa County Hospital, Phoenix, Arizona. I was expected to be due on May 27th, but I couldn't wait to start my life. My Grandmother, kind of an oracle, foresaw in a dream that I'd be born right after my mother's birthday, May 7th. She got Aca, my grandad, and started heading down from Salt Lake City to Phoenix, so that she could see me. She told my mother, and my mom pretty much laughed it off. Boy, was my mom ever wrong.

My dad was the type of guy that was either on the golf course, or rock climbing, when the other kids were born. Well, there wasn't any way in hell he was getting out of mine. On that morning, my mom got the cramps. My dad being a most impatient and actionable man, at that time, said that he was taking her in right away, and grabbed all the kids, 'cept my bro, who had the mumps. To this day we don't know who looked after him while we were all gone to the hospital. I think that they all just took off and forgot him. I guess that's why he's got a bad complex.

My mother's OB wasn't in. As usual, my dad went into full on "Sergeant King" mode and started kicking asses, or so I've been told. Well, the Sarge managed to get the resident OB and my mom introduced me into the world fast and furiously, without any drugs: au natural. I made my entrance @ about 2:30pm. I was her largest baby at 8lbs, 3 oz., and I had a nice full set of locks.

According to my mom, I was screaming like the devil, when I was born (I hear that that's all the rage with babies). When the resident OB plopped me on my mother's tummy, she started talking to me. As soon as I heard her voice, I was calm and quiet.

In the following years, I was passed around like a doobie, from sister to sister. My dad was going through hell with prostate cancer, panic/anxiety attacks, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, depression, and a trial, where he had to testify against his company. After that he was black-balled by that crowd for not perjuring himself for the sake of a corporation. So, my mom worked two jobs, while my dad painted houses--when he wasn't near death.

My oldest sister became my mom. She would let me sit on her lap in the car, Britney style, and let me take the steering wheel. She would come into my room tripping on acid and tell me about the "Skeleton" that was taking Halloween candy and that I should give her all mine to keep safe. I never saw that Zig-Zag bar ever again. She was cool, 'cause she would demand that her dates take me along. So, I got to see Rocky II and a bunch of other R-rated movies in the theater while they made out. The trip to Denny's afterwards was always awesome.

My dad eventually got through the legal crap and moved away for a year. That's all I know about that and no one will talk about it. I think that it wasn't a separation. Rather, my dad just couldn't get anybody to hire him after that trial. Nobody fuckin' told me what the hell was going on, however--pretty damn confusing. My mom did three jobs, then. I remember staying up 'till 1:00am waiting for the woman who smelled like steak to come into the house. The dogs, Buffy and her son Thor, always knew when she was within a block of the house. They were gettin' some "T's" from all the left over steaks. So, as soon as the dogs started flipping out, I knew that my "moms" was coming home.

My dad eventually came back, and we all moved to Utah. He managed to stay working for five more years before he had a total breakdown, and hasn't worked since. My mom has worked two to three jobs at any given time ever since, only to stop for a bit to fight cancer, which almost claimed her life. I like to think that the deal I made with God was the reason my mom pulled through, really. Well, I sure as heck didn't know he'd want me to clean up after his vaste stable of road-apple happy unicorns.

We took care of two grandparents from opposite sides of the family during this time where things were uber shitty. They eventually passed, my mom went right back to work, and my dad did his best to be a housewife and hold on to what remaining possessions that our family had, which didn't last that long, unfortunately. My oldest sister got, what we now call, date raped (back then it was called "a mistake"), had the baby (girl), which then died.

All these bad things happened to my family when I came into the world. I thought that I was a curse. And on top of all that, I had D's and F's for most of my report cards from the 5th grade on. Summer and night school rocks, baby! That's where I learned how to use a "Butterfly" knife, nunchuks, how to fight for reals, steal stuff, and learned how the underground economics of High School really worked. I never got invloved, but I "knew" guys who could get you "stuff". Ironically, I can't remember any of my teachers from those courses, or what they taught. I barely graduated. There's more to that story that isn't as bleak as it sounds. I pulled through, with the help of some new friends. The only drawback was that they turned me into "Godboy".

Now, my dad has gone from being the "sickest person on earth" to functional and healthy--for him. I got him through physical therapy and now I don't have to wheel him around everywhere and listen to him cuss and spit fire. He isn't as whacked out anymore, thank God. My mom still works full time at 72 and does Avon, not because she has to, but because that woman can't sit still for two minutes (or be around my dad for that long, that old curmudgeon). Hell, she's the only old lady that I know of that can survive on 4 hours of sleep, regularly. I swear she does coke. She's got about a million friends and puts all of us to shame. Gosh, I love that woman.

Well, I rambled on there. I have been in the reminiscing mood today. I'm allowed now. I'm old.

P.S. This is not a pity party, 'cause we all survived to say, "Fuck You, and You, and You. Neener, neener!" One of these days, I'm gonna track that fuckin' gypsy monkey, what cursed us, and shove his or her head in a meat grinder. Kissel Corp. FOAD! I might just take this one down when I get up in the morning, and say to myself, "WTF was I thinking?"