Twenty eight years ago, I was born in the hallway of a hospital. I've been on the run ever since.
Even though I'm a little too old for this, I ask my parents to describe the day I was born every year. It was cold and dark, and they had to drive from Scotville to Albion because I came early. I know my Dad stopped on the way for smokes and that I was born in the hallway while he was putting on scrubs. I couldn't wait. They didn't tell me until I was 18 that he wasn't there to see me born, but I don't think it's such of a much. I spent my first night out of the hospital in a hotel room, and I slept in a drawer.
I parse over this story and try to find some lasting clues about my life. I so urgently came into this world. That has to mean something, right? Did I know then what I was supposed to do or be, and I forgot?
The last two years have been the hardest of my life, even harder than my deranged childhood. I have felt lonely and pierced. Today, I still feel like I walk on the edges of real life, but I am getting closer and closer to something...genuine.
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