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04-26-2013, 06:20 PM
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I’m not going to be pretentiously philosophical and talk about my time in the womb—because I hardly remember any of that jazz. It was a dark time, a cramped time, and it’s a full blank in my memory banks. So don’t bother asking. I ain’t too mussed with the facts and the reminiscin’ and all that nice stuff. Also--the parts about springing out of my Ma’s vajayjay? You can go ahead and imagine how majestic and precious I must’ve looked soaked to the marrow in all that amniotic fluid. Even in birth I was probably pretty attractive. But once again—I’m not too keen on remembering details like that. I’m not Frankenstein’s Monster (contrary to popular belief) and I don’t fancy thinking myself like that--so I’d like to keep some shred of dignity with me. I will say, however, that I was born fighting. Even in the first seconds of my life, I found a reason to be pissed. In this case, it was the air. I mean—hey, we’ve all been born before, right? Or at least, we’ve all awakened in the wee hours of morning, reluctant to uncurl ourselves from the tight ball of our own warmth, dreading getting out of our comfort space into the bitter cold that is morning’s bitch-slap into wakefulness. Well, being born is no exception to that—after all, you’re pretty much waking up into the morning of your life, right? So yeah, I was pretty pissed being shoved into all that chill and whatnot. I was positively screaming at the air, believing it would listen to me. Stop that, air! I was probably squealing in my baby-chirps, Stop it! Stop being cold! Quit that mess. The air wouldn’t listen, and I was huffed. Even then, I hated being ignored. I never stopped moving, filled as I was with an incessant energy. These were the weakest moments of my life—where I should’ve been tired by the slightest warble and effort—but it wasn’t the case with me. Even though I didn’t know what to do with my legs, I was moving them, wiggling them in the grass in my desire for movement. I was still squealing at all the things, in all the places (yeah, sure, I was a loud baby), and my ears flicked here and there, back and forth, while my tiny stub of a tail jerked in tiny jolts of my displeasure with the freezing air. The notion that I was a child of Shock would not come to me for many years. I would live with this energy until my bones turned to dust; I wouldn’t know any other way to live. Oh yeah, and I was still pissed. This is bullshit, I may have said. Why is it so cold? What is this even…? The very next thing I became aware of in all of the 3 minutes of life was that something was touching me. In those 3 minutes I began to be aware of my own self, and this thing touching me was not of me. Well, my first instinct was to fight with it. Every time it nudged me, I would nudge it back. Everytime it licked the nasty stuff out my fur, I would lick it back. Hah! Take that! And that! Gosh, I was competitive…still am. How dare you touch me!? Well, now I touch you back! Hah! Pretty sucky, isn’t it?? Over and over again, I continued to fight this thing that was not me, and it was pretty great while it lasted. *"Happy birthday, Roskuld."* I stopped. I looked up to the source of that music—in that moment, I became aware of Ma, and that she was a force in the world. Roskuld…? Was that my name? I supposed it was (even though I immediately hated it), because the idea of Ma would be stuck forever in my mind, and it could never have been “Roskuld”. Never ”Ophelia”. Never ”Chieftainess of the Foothills.” She was Ma. My Ma. She was no longer a thing pressing against me—she was Ma, pushing against me, gently encouraging me to copy her and stand on my four feet (I became aware of “feet”). Well, quit that mess! I was going to stand whether she liked it or not! (see how I turned it around on her? I was a treacherous chump like that). My legs weren’t very long for many foals, but for me, they were positively enormous. I wasn’t fazed—and I started the delicate operations of standing posty-hasty. There was much jerking and twisting and crumbling and other embarrassing stuff, and I’m not going to give you the details of it (the dignity thing). But I’ll say that the sun was well on its way in climbing into the sky when, in my infinite pride and glory, I succeeded in standing in an exaggerated pose, meaning to look somewhat magisterial when in fact I was doing my absolute best to keep my position without letting the wind knock me over with every small, subtle gust. I stared about myself, all self-important in my eyes, and then turned my head to look at Ma, studying her, realizing just how small I was compared to her. How you like them apples, Ma? I may have thought, the ass-hat within already beginning to blossom. [Really long birth post is really long. Sorry about that. Go ahead and stifle her with pure Mercenary Love.] |
