I entered the world at 2:17 in the morning of that day.  The doctor held the slime-covered newborn me by the feet and gave my ass a resounding slap.  I screamed bloody murder.

At the time, I could have done without the reminder that it was time to start breathing.  I would have been perfectly content to let the doctor wait until I stopped gurgling and twitching then hook shot me into the stillborn bin.  What did I have to live for?  I was too young to drink and the bars were closed at that hour anyway.

Forty-six years on, my appreciation for life has improved.  With a little effort and a lot of luck, I’ve managed to carve out a decent existence for myself.  I have food, shelter, and friends, plus enough of a sense of humor to carry me through when things don’t go my way.