Most people are born in a hospital. Maybe some in a clinic or the back of a rusty red 1978 Buick, but most in a hospital. And I am no different. Just like everyone else, I was born with a clean slate. But physically, I am not the same. I was born with facial hair and 6 foot 2 inches worth of grade A human meat. From what they tell me, I was in a car crash. My body was found 20 feet from it. The crash, in the form of wrangled metal wrapped around a tree, was said it should have killed me on the spot, not to mention the karma that comes with an intoxicated state. So it seems as if my clean slate was ill-received. My heart goes out to all of the poor souls who are still struggling, still suffering the lament of an inescapable addiction. All I can do for them is uphold the chance I have been given. It is this same chance I have wasted far too many times in the past. If only each of those poor souls could have their own car crash or blunt force injury to the head, or even struck by lightning. They too could just barely crawl out, out of the womb, and into their freshly laundered hospital bed.