Today marks the anniversary of my uteral exodus. For twas twenty-seven years ago on this very day that I emerged majestic from a sac so amniotic, that on this day a laborious force pushed me unto this world as a masterpiece of flesh and bone, the coming together of two primal seeds, the magnificent culmination of infinite divisions of cellular splendor. Aye, the fetus hath no beauty, but tis one of ever gaining limbs, and I grew large, and I exclaimed, "I will kick unto thee!" for a fire burned within my undeterminable loins that they did resist upon the womb. Oh, what barrier twas, for to be in womb is not to have blossomed, and as the winter flower cowers in petals anticipating spring's warm invitation, an opening I did await, and twas in this canal of birth that I did cry, "waa! waaaa!" and my body moved toward the light and glove of rubber, and twas cold, and twas bright, and twas as if the liberty of birth was still not to be had, as I was so restrained by a chord of umbilical resistance, for tis only after a button upon the belly that infant freedom can begin. And so it has come to pass, all the time which hath so mercifully allowed memories of uteral exodus to flicker and die out, that one must conjure such ramblings and pay tribute to times of prenatal strife, and only then can an anniversary of birth be had in proper triumph.