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1stmateMy life is in perfect order. It has been for as long as I can remember, possibly even for longer than I've been alive. I will attend Harvard, you see, and that will be followed by Harvard Law. I will start as an associate, but I am sure to rise quickly through the ranks and be perfectly positioned to take the firm when my father decides to enjoy an early retirement. Should I require a mid-life crisis, there should be a delightful new Mustang out by them to tempt my fancy.
My high school will be a private live-in affair, too swank to use the term "boarding school." There is a magnet school I may attend before then, close enough to live at home and have the chauffeur drive me each morning; I will be home in time to enjoy an evening toast with Father each night. I will, of course, attend the local elementary school, as we must all come from humble roots. Preschool, on the other hand.... Mother knows of this simply delightful place, run by the young (but not too young) wife of one of my father's clients.
I flip around and kick wearily at the wall. We're all getting a bit ahead of ourselves here, aren't we? I might not grow up to like law at all. I could have a great talent for painting or violin. I could be an astrophysicist or cure the last great disease of the planet. There's nothing wrong with thinking about preschool, maybe, but the mid-life crisis already? Let a kid get born first!
Something presses against my foot, and I obligingly kick again. The rush of reaction tells me that once again, it's someone else's hand. Mother is showing off how perfect her baby is, even now. God, but she'll be insufferable when I'm a teenager. One of those mothers who seems to wish the kid were still inside her, always with the perfect story of the perfect thing that perfect kid did. Don't they realize nobody ever remembers the plot of an individual episode of Perfect Child Is Perfect?
A thought comes to me, and I attempt my first smirk. As smirks go, it's not overly successful, but the plan that prompted it is still a good one. I shift once more, this time pointing my head in the same direction as Mother's. It takes a little maneuvering, some careful lining up, but it's worth it to give her a story that nobody will forget once they hear it. I brace my feet on the side of her womb and push off hard.
Success! Also, ow! I should probably have thought this plan through a little better, but I think I can cut myself some slack this time. I am still a few days away from technically even having an age. Mistakes are bound to happen. But the scheme is working so far; my head is wedged between two of her ribs. I figure it'll be a while before they can work me out of there, and with my skull as soft as it is, I might even be a little misshapen. Nobody wants a lawyer with a lopsided head, you know.
But that extra slant I've added on the left may well be the best idea I'll have for the next few years. It will give me a chance at this life, a chance to be whoever I end up being. Crooked head is a good look on an artist, I hear, or any number of careers. I've given myself the freedom to choose today. That's all I really wanted, anyway.
My high school will be a private live-in affair, too swank to use the term "boarding school." There is a magnet school I may attend before then, close enough to live at home and have the chauffeur drive me each morning; I will be home in time to enjoy an evening toast with Father each night. I will, of course, attend the local elementary school, as we must all come from humble roots. Preschool, on the other hand.... Mother knows of this simply delightful place, run by the young (but not too young) wife of one of my father's clients.
I flip around and kick wearily at the wall. We're all getting a bit ahead of ourselves here, aren't we? I might not grow up to like law at all. I could have a great talent for painting or violin. I could be an astrophysicist or cure the last great disease of the planet. There's nothing wrong with thinking about preschool, maybe, but the mid-life crisis already? Let a kid get born first!
Something presses against my foot, and I obligingly kick again. The rush of reaction tells me that once again, it's someone else's hand. Mother is showing off how perfect her baby is, even now. God, but she'll be insufferable when I'm a teenager. One of those mothers who seems to wish the kid were still inside her, always with the perfect story of the perfect thing that perfect kid did. Don't they realize nobody ever remembers the plot of an individual episode of Perfect Child Is Perfect?
A thought comes to me, and I attempt my first smirk. As smirks go, it's not overly successful, but the plan that prompted it is still a good one. I shift once more, this time pointing my head in the same direction as Mother's. It takes a little maneuvering, some careful lining up, but it's worth it to give her a story that nobody will forget once they hear it. I brace my feet on the side of her womb and push off hard.
Success! Also, ow! I should probably have thought this plan through a little better, but I think I can cut myself some slack this time. I am still a few days away from technically even having an age. Mistakes are bound to happen. But the scheme is working so far; my head is wedged between two of her ribs. I figure it'll be a while before they can work me out of there, and with my skull as soft as it is, I might even be a little misshapen. Nobody wants a lawyer with a lopsided head, you know.
But that extra slant I've added on the left may well be the best idea I'll have for the next few years. It will give me a chance at this life, a chance to be whoever I end up being. Crooked head is a good look on an artist, I hear, or any number of careers. I've given myself the freedom to choose today. That's all I really wanted, anyway.
no subject
Date: 2012-09-20 01:18 am (UTC)