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At some point near the end of the 1960s, God held the soul of a pudgy, black-haired infant in his hands. He looked at her carefully and decided that this infant would have the distinction of experiencing difficulty with the most basic of all human tasks.
Then He sent that soul off to be born* in our nation’s capital.
Because of God’s decree, that child has indeed experienced extreme difficulty with things that others find easy–even pleasurable!
The infant turned out to be me. But you’d already figured that out, right?
Growing up as a normal child, secure in her parents’ love? Nope. Learning to eat food–but not too much food? Oh no. Getting pregnant in the normal fashion? You must be kidding! Nursing her own infant? Nearly impossible! Having a fulfilling sex life? Riotous laughter!
And now it seems that I have trouble sleeping. Sleeping, for the love of all that is holy. What sort of an incompetent nincompoop** has trouble sleeping? One needs only to lie down! How can it be difficult?
And yet sleeping is difficult, for me. How incredibly frustrating.
Such simple things, things that other people take for granted. And I can’t seem to do them like a normal person. I must be from a different planet. I’m incompatible with Earth.
Nothing can possibly be easy for me. Nothing can come naturally. I’ll really know this is true if I ever have trouble reading*. If I have trouble reading, I’m shuffling off this mortal coil immediately.
______
*Because, you know, it’s easier for me to believe that babies get their souls within moments of birth.
**Don’t yell at me. I know that plenty of people have trouble sleeping. I’m just frustrated with myself.
***Or pooping. But mostly reading.
