Pátek 9. června 2023, svátek má Stanislava
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Darwin Would Be Surprised


I’m a baby. A genius baby considering the fact that I haven’t been born yet. They think I’m primitive and look like a dissected pickle with fermented cabbage on top, and I might agree with them on the latter.

But under any conditions, I will not accept being addressed as a primitive. Just because their reproductive organs are fully functioning and their skulls don’t have fontanels, doesn’t necessarily mean they know more than I do. I skipped some phase or whatnot and that’s why I’m a genius. I think I’m a bit claustrophobic, too. But who wouldn’t be in this gross-looking slimy place? The tightness of this place makes me dizzy at times. I could even vomit if I knew how to. The thing is, I’ve never tried it, and my common sense tells me it might not be the best idea. What would I vomit? Urine? Blood? Tomato juice? I can’t even picture myself sharing this place with another identical pickle. Thank God they didn’t do it too often…

I bet people on the outside think I’m not mean. They think I’m innocent, that I’m just a baby, untouched by the outside world. They don’t have the slightest idea that I got messed up a little and have been affected by the outside world too much. Don’t ask me how, I don’t know myself, which is weird, I admit. People shouldn’t take for granted who they are, but my case is an exception. I’m a genius, which is also one of the reasons I love figurative language and think I’m funny, at least sometimes. They also think I’m funny, but different kind of funny. People on the outside sometimes say things are funny just for the sake of saying that things are funny even if they are not funny at all. They contradict themselves all the time.
There are a lot of things that make me amused. One of the things that cracks me up is my nationality. The thing is, I haven’t been born yet so I think I don’t belong to any nationality. I think I have the right to chose my nationality myself and not consider the fact that my parents are American. I bet I could spend some time arguing with myself, but I would need to stay here for a little longer and think it over, do some research. I mean, what determines my nationality when I’m still inside? The umbilical cord? Does it really? Maybe I should ask. Do you think I’m American? Why does everyone have to be from the States? Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii. Hawaii is a beautiful archipelago of tectonic origin in the Pacific Ocean. Am I too clever for an unborn baby?

Anyway, even though I’m a genius and should be content with who I am, I still have issues. I mean dilemmas. I think I might have missed the purpose of life. Everyone has something to fulfill. Eat dinner, save the world, kill a neighbor. My goal is to be delivered, apparently. But what if my goal is to live on a farm and speak with the chickens in a sweet and tender voice and roll California sushi rolls down my throat? Without the crab, of course. Eating raw meat, fish or poultry may result in the development of a food-borne disease. What if my purpose is to live unborn? Speaking of which I should stop using the term speaking of which makes me sound like I’m Angolan, born in Tajikistan, working in a nuclear weapon factory, who spent three years of high school in The Democratic Republic of Congo, with his sister-in-law. What if I’m going to explode soon? Will I look like a crushed oreo with icing? Or without?

I hate the word mother. Just the sound of it makes me clench my fists and punch the freaking membrane in front of me. And burp. Is living worth the effort? My gender doesn’t help me decide either. When I think of my future, I’d rather stop existing. Soccer, army, whores. Sometimes I wish I could pick the best from both genders. Having nipples is at least some kind of compensation. Why couldn’t I decide on my own when I was still a weird talking embryo with six fingers, a translucent sleeping bag?

I can tell she’s angry. Even though she dislikes classical music and all the instrumental parts in her favorite songs, she keeps the play button on.  She thinks it makes me smarter. I already know all the Russian, French and German titans; the blind, the deaf, and the music-turned-us-insane ones. This one sounds very familiar, je pense que c’est Debussy, n’est ce-pas? I rarely miss. I feel for this Impressionistic prodigy. I must have something in common with this composers’ breed. I’m a lonely genius, soaked in fluid. It’s a tough job. Speaking of fluids, it might be interesting to expand my knowledge on cytoplasm and its significance in our everyday lives and on the strengths and weaknesses of Cincinnatus’ leadership skills. That damn Debussy makes my thoughts wonder and my coccyx itch. She should give more consideration as to what music she chooses.

“Honey look at you!”
Grandparents are back. I don’t know anyone but everyone thinks they know me.  People freak out when they see a little human. I’m the only one who’s not excited at all. I mean it’s logical, I’m not out yet. So why does everyone have to make all that fuss? Nature and its phenomena are hard to explain.

“Do you want me to show you what I’ve bought for him?”
I hate when she gets up suddenly, my whole body trembles and I feel like I’m falling upwards. People don’t know how it feels to fall upwards, because they are dumb when they’re inside. I’m not and that makes me happy, even though falling upwards is very unpleasant. 

“Oh, look at that little cute stitching, what does it say? I love my mother? That is so cute. I’d love to have one of these.”
Baby blue is for idiots. I’m a genius, don’t you understand? 
I feel like having a steak. A big, juicy steak, medium rare. A good piece of flesh doesn’t hurt, does it? I couldn’t live as an herbivore, chewing on grass that was urinated on by foxes and deer. No offence Bambi. The more I think about it, the more I want to pop outside and get it myself. I am a man of action.

Ouch. Wait, I was just kidding. I’m the one to be responsible for the final verdict. I’m the one to decide on such an important issue. I don’t remember giving my permission to anybody, to anyone, I just thought I could get a little steak, that’s all. Maybe, I could pretend I’m a puffer fish and blow my head as big as I could.  Think of something, genius. Jesus Christ, I’m a genius and geniuses tend to have bigger brains, right? Is my head big enough? I get a tape measure out of my pocket and try to measure my skull perimeter, but the space is too tight. I can’t even put the tape back in my pocket. A nightmare. I can’t help myself from picturing what it’s going to be like out there, when the air is going to hit my nostrils. Is it going to smell like acid and disinfection? I can already see the white walls, the green outfits, the carbon-steel forceps. I’ve had plans.  You don’t understand. Who said I’m ready? Ready to gasp for my breath and start breathing? I hate milk. I don’t want to pop out into a place I’ve never been before, a place where thousands of others have been born and died. I don’t have the least intention to squish my head and damage my delicate skull. I’m a genius. To hell with gravity, to hell with hospitals, to hell with life.

My priorities are set, I know what I’m doing. Who cares about surreal babies with suicidal intentions anyway? Sorry, mother. I changed my mind.


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