Confessions of an Ex-Fetus

It's hard to imagine a more controversial topic than (whispering) abortion. One thing I never hear people call upon when discussing this topic is their own personal experience. I don't mean experience with terminating a pregnancy, but rather being on the other end of the deal -- the fetus itself. Let me introduce the topic. My name is Dave and I am an ex-fetus. I suspect that a large number of people reading this right now share my experience. Accounting for a few probably mentally ill people who claim to remember what it was like relaxing in that quiet amniotic Jacuzzi, this period of our existence is something that people have absolutely no recollection of. I am one of those people. As a matter of fact, the first couple of years, in terms of memory, are quite spotty. I think the first memory probably clocks in at around three years, but that is debatable. I think it had something to do with making a mess in my trousers. And I'm sure I felt pain during this time, but I have no memory of it either.

At some point during this quiet and peaceful time, I went from being a group of cells wrestling with each other, to some sort of sentient being that would have its own mind, and be different from every other person who ever lived. I have no recollection as to when this actually took place, but I know it did. This proves to me that the idea of "incarnation" does indeed exist. Since incarnation is possible, and happens at an alarming rate each and every day, what about re-incarnation? The list of things that can be redone must be at least as long as the list of things that can't. Why not this thing? The human body often performs its own abortion in the form of a miscarriage. Does this then mean that that sentient being that may have been already created is forever thrown back into the ether, never to be heard from again -- never to be born, ride a bicycle, pay its electric bill, or cheat on its taxes?

Even if no one ever consciously terminated a pregnancy, that question still remains. Why can we not think of the great beginning as a sort of interdimensional train station where if you miss one train you catch the next one? Whether your train derails through mechanical failure, or the engineer just decided to kick you off cause he didn't like that red hair, why is that your fault? Take another train. I know that if my mother had been a 15-year-old crack addict who didn't want a baby and had no way of supporting one, I'd want to give her a thank-you note for sending me back to the station. Who knows, I may have a shot at winning the sperm lottery and re-entering the world as Angelina Jolie's next millionaire baby. Hey, you can't win of you don't play.