Be Heavy

I was born in 1978 under the sign of Taurus and the roof of a rusty Ford. My mother, Gail Breslin, died under the same roof that very morning, holding me and my rapidly beating newborn heart against her slowly dying own. A highway patrolman spotted the car -- both rear doors open and encroaching on the right-hand ditch -- no more than a few minutes after I entered this world and my mother departed from it. Lucky for me; not so much for her.

From the day of her birth until that fateful morning on May 11, 1978, Gail Breslin led a hard life. Just a few days old, she was abandoned on the steps of an orphanage in Iowa and baptized just a few days later. The date: May 13, 1961. I'd like to believe she died on her birthday. My birthday. I've read that Shakespeare may have died on his birthday, too, but no one knows for sure. Sometimes it's better that way. Sometimes it's best to make truth out of the unknown. Isn't that the essence of art, after all?

If it's good enough for the Bard, it's good enough for me.

Gail "Don't Call Me Abigail" Breslin never met her birth mother, nor did she ever care to. But, remember, there's truth in the unknown, and for her the truth was that no army of irresponsible, abusive, or uncaring real parents could be worse than the tyrants who supposedly looked after her best interests but in all actuality tossed her -- like a football lateral -- further and further behind, from one foster home to another, from one asshole/bitch and monster/witch to the next.

There was the preacher with psoriasis who used to pinch her behind as she slept and kiss her on her mouth when she was awake; the passive-aggressive school teacher who would teach by day and -- after a few glasses of brandy and a hardcore swing session at the neighbor's -- torment by night; and don't forget the corrupt police officer. There's always a corrupt police officer in tales such as these, and this one's no different.