Inside my mother's womb, I am like a fetus. Tiny hands, feet - ten of each - just like all parents wish. Performing acrobatic tumbling and summersaults in imperfect amniotic fluid. Why imperfect, you ask? I have in me, not an extra gene or malfunction that can be seen, but hidden deep invisible to the naked eye - even to a high powered microscope, a tiny glitch in my brain. This spark of uniqueness travels from my emotional control booth, via human wiring, and stretches to my face, spirals down my arms and reaches my fingertips. But it does not stop there. This beast envelops my heart - drips, like tar on a sky rise building, to my stomach. This is where it sits, molds, evolves into a faster more erratic ride. I makes me kick - and if at all possible, scream. My mother runs to the bathroom. She believes I am just an active parasite in her body. Unknown to her I can feel fire burning in me. Though this takes years, I can feel a storm building to climax. To an unborn child the slight flutter of wind is like monsoon season in Arizona. I move, kick, summersault faster and faster. I'm sure my mother believes I will become a soccer player or gymnast. She does not know that I am scratching at my body, already imagining what it will look like when blood drips from my skin. I want it out. The storm circles faster until it rollercoaster's down my tiny bow-legged limbs to the soles of my feet and ceases at my toes. It has completed its mission. My body is consumed.

I can imagine what was happening in heaven the day God decided to plant the ingredients to make this one tiny person. He's standing next to the island in his heavenly kitchen, as angels position themselves within marveling distance at this creative process. With His delicate touch He slips the batter out of the box and pours it into a giant mixing bowl. There are no instructions - He is God.

First - the sex, male or female, boy ore girl? God decides upon a girl - but instead of adding 'sugar and spice and everything nice', He mixes this batter differently. Eye color - hazel, hair color - red just like her mother.

As a child my plethora of small brown spots on almost every inch of my body had me disgruntled. My father deceived me at a young age into mashing bananas and spreading it, like lotion, over my body. This didn't work. My granny, trying desperately to make me love who I was, explained to me that freckles were angel kisses. God shouted, "She needs freckles!" Every angel from the ends of the earth to standing in front of God in his kitchen place their hands in front of their mouths and blow tiny angel kisses which land in my human goo. Father's nose, chin and teeth. "She will need glasses." God says, and then laughs, "Not everyone can be perfect." But why stop there - imperfections are limitless. All redheads need a temper, but God got distracted and instead of one tablespoon of anger, dumps a whole cup. From there it is anger no more, but takes another form, rage. God walks to a special cabinet and carefully pulls out a bottle. "There will be none like her."