Prefornication days.

Can we not remember the preembryal past? Most cannot. But fortunately for myself and for others, I have the gift of a memory which extends 9 1/4 months back before my birth. Revel in my glorious spermiffic and eggsestential thoughts...

Swimming, yes, hours upon hours of swimming in this grape-like sphere. Practice for the ultimate speed trial, the infinite marathon, the last dance contest. Who will survive in this tadpole-eat-tadpole world? It will be I, of course.

The most glorious of the competitors. My bulging, strategy-filled head. My razor-sharp, whip-like tail. Birth is my destiny, and none of these lesser sperm will destroy that.

The moment itself was rather anti-climactic (pardon the pun). The others had given up long ago.

It has been alleged that I was the mastermind behind a vast conspiracy which lead the failure of millions of others, resulting in my conception. I refuse to dignify those allegations with a response.

The rest of the 9 months was spent playing the waiting game. I passed the time by plotting out an elaborate novel in my mind, filled with witticisms and complications.

It was six years before I discovered that this book had already been written by Henrick Boll, and was entitled "Group Portrait With Lady." Psychic plagiarism, no doubt.

And thus, it was May 15, 1979, when I was born. Legend has it that I emerged with a full, bright pink mohawk and a sneer on my face. I find it difficult to remember, as I was rather exhausted at the time.

Cheers broke out in the streets. The yelling and hand-shaking blossomed into fireworks and looting. It was a day for celebration, and across the country, a message spread:

"Nicholas Aaron Ammerman has been born!"