Excerpt:

I don’t remember being born. Most people don’t I suppose. I’m sure that I was disgusting, looking like an ugly sort of alien, and covered with all sorts of disgusting shit. But my parents probably cooed and said I was adorable and beautiful. I can’t fault my mother she was on all sorts of pain relieving drugs and too tired to admit otherwise. My Dad on the other hand would have had no excuse, other than that peer pressure of sentimentality that all new parents are supposed to have when they see their child for the first time, that cliché of instant love and connection and appreciation immediately reduced to physical terms. I do however remember when I died. I suppose it is hard to foget your sibling pointing a gun at your head and pulling the trigger. People tend to remember shit like that, and have much more genuine reactions.