Some, call it a birthday. Others, call it a nightmare.

My parents, are among “Others.” March 23. 1992 was the day a tiny vacuum helped pull at ten pounds and two ounces of red and white flesh coming from my mother’s vagina, and as she held me and analyzed the purple and black bruise on the top of my head from the suction cup that had just moments ago invaded her private areas, she was immediately filled with regret.

Along with my father, she settled on the name ‘Sean Leslie,’ partially because they liked the sound, and partially because they felt bad calling me “it” during the first few hours. Yet the real reason for the discrepancy came from the fact that ‘Sean’ was a backup name. You see, my parents thought it’d be fun to not know the sex of the baby ahead of time, sort of like playing Russian roulette, only with infants. But instead of playing it safe and painting the nursery yellow, or crafting a list of name options for both sexes, my parents settled on ‘Lauren.’

Naturally, not only was I enough of a burden already to require an emergency assisted pregnancy, but I had eventually found my way out of the womb with a penis in tow, so my parents decided on ‘Sean’ after watching an episode of Young and the Restless in the recovery room and picking the first male name to appear on screen. They watched the rest of the episode to catch the spelling during the credits. 


And so the nurse bundled my ass up and reluctantly sent me home with what I happen to call parents, where they calmly laid me down in a soft-pink nursery, complete with Barbie’s on the bookshelves and little pink polka-dot dresses hanging in the closet, took down the sign that said, “It’s A Girl!” and thus, my journey begins.

If you’re wondering what this journey is about, it’s a tyrant rant through the ridiculous mess I call my life. So strap in and hold on, it’s about to get stupid. Helmets optional, though highly recommended.