Crackbaby’s were once believed to eventually grow up to become the emotionally unstable, mentally challenged, physically disabled, and rejected criminals of society. I can personally attest that only one of those outcomes are true. I should know - I was one of those Crackbabies. And these are my stories (ominous, Law & Order-vibey tone plays).
Unlike other sacred texts, inspired by the mysteries of religion, virgins or last meals - which I'm sure were delicious - my stories do not spread joy or sorrow, and neither creates or takes life. There are the occasional men in loin cloths, however.
A Crackbaby's Bible relinquishes the scriptures promise of everlasting life, and does not incite the fear of being forever damned. My story, so far, does not end with a crucifixion, though I too, have been kept awake many nights by a large, eerily sad figure hanging from my grandmother's wall.
Instead, my story begins on the 39th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor; the night before John Lennon’s murder; JonBenét Ramsey's Dad's 37th birthday; and most notoriously, I was born in the very year that introduced us all to AIDS. With all these tragic omens looming over my birth, perhaps an incubator was the safest place for me to be.
Good things do eventually happen in my life. It just took a little time to get there. Did I mention men in loin cloths? How about my twin sister?