Oh sorry, were you in line? I have fetal alcohol syndrome so I get to purchase my alcohol first. You know, since I was born addicted and all. I like to drink alcohol for the taste. And because it makes me drunk. Honestly, I feel bad for people who don’t have fetal alcohol syndrome. Who else gets to go to Disneyland for full price? And who else gets to cut the line at the liquor store when it’s New Years Eve? Or Tuesday morning?

It’s not drinking alone if you’re pregnant. That’s what my mother used to say while she was sipping scotch in her third trimester with yours truly. It’s alright. I don’t mind my enlarged brow or my small head. My physical appearance is actually quite the conversation starter with the ladies, I’d imagine. Especially the ones with medical degrees who keep calling child protective services on my mother. They should’ve called earlier. She’s nearly dead, you idiots! Haha.

My mom has boobs in all the right places. It’s sad none of my sisters ever will, given they are deformed. Sorry—I’m having intrusive thoughts. They are not related to my fetal alcohol syndrome. Do you like bread? Do you If you like bread I could drive you to my house, maybe hit a curb on the way if you’re into that kind of thing. My mom is making her signature dish for dinner: microwaved bread. And you could meet my other siblings (six if we’re rounding to a whole number). The line behind me? I don’t think you understand. I’m kind of in a rush here. My car is double parked in aisle seven and I gotta get the shattered storefront glass out of my leather seats before dinner.