Warmth. Darkness. Tranquility. Bathed in a nurturing life affirming fluid, I drift and roll. This cocoon of love will make me what I am to be.
Throbbing. Pressure. A far off light. Muffled sounds. What is this? What is happening? Am I ready to be born? Isn’t it too soon? I’m not ready. Leave me in.
Heaving. Coughing. Sputtering. Wheezing for breath. Forces propel me upright. Cough. Shake. Breathe, almost. I awake to find I’ve not been born. I’ve been left for near dead by the evil Robitussin. Stuff doesn’t work. Although I don't mind Wildberry as much as I thought I might.
Where are my cigarettes?