To describe the circumstances of my birth, the origins of my life such as it is: An empty lot. A smoldering tire.

A pile of waste so teeming with mutant vermin the ethics of departing explorers require them to nuke it from orbit.

A planet that should never have been born, an absolute mistake. If there were a whit of cosmic mercy, the laws of physics would have changed at the moment of creation to permit the abomination to fall into the sun.

I am Caliban. For real, y'all.

Ending up as dust doesn't feel like enough. Only the annihilation of matter will do, a reversal of time, full-blown non-existence.

I hate Christmas.