My mom always called me a “SIDS baby.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by it other than it somehow took my life. I only learned as an adult that SIDS is an acronym for Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. It wasn’t for long, but I clinically died after birth. I was resuscitated–twice, I think–but still, that big-headed baby somehow lived to see another day. The year 1983 was my first. Somehow, that doesn’t seem strange to me. Peculiarly, it seems to make sense. I’ve admittedly grown up to be a vulgar, perverse character and seeing that 1983 had a then-record of R-rated movies released, it almost seems fitting that I came about when I had. The year was fated to be my last, too. But it’s something I don’t think of often. Thoughts like that can be a tad frightening.
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