November 7, 1998 10:30 a.m.

It was a cold day in 1974. My mother tread through the icy wind, with the hard pangs of labor searing through her belly, to the hospital where I was to be born. My father nestled cozily next to the woman who would eventually get him addicted to drugs again.

Some people just should not be parents.

At 11:56 p.m. my mother stared at the big hospital clock that was to be her focal point during my delivery and wondered when we'd celebrate my birthday if I was born at midnight. 11:58 I was born, eternally severing any maternal attachment that may have existed, and I gave up alcohol, cold turkey. Heh.

It's all downhill from there, baby.

So, today is my birthday. Happy birthday to me. No big fancy plans or anything. Grandma insists on making it a big deal with a dinner and a cake. Thanks Nan. I personally don't see the point to celebrating, but that's just me.

"So how's it feel to be 24?" My dad would say. "What special thing do you want for your birthday?" My mom would say.

It feels fine and I want nothing. Just go away.

C ya.