When they pulled him out of his mother’s vagina in 1988, Jerome was crying. It was pretty obvious he didn’t want to be born. Unfortunately, nobody cared about his opinion; he was zero years old, after all, and wailing wasn’t a language adults understood very well. Even if they could understand him, they couldn’t shove him back into his mother’s vagina. It was game over before it began.

The doctor merrily spanked Jerome, because that’s what obstetricians did in those days. This made Jerome, who didn’t yet know his name was to be Jerome, cry even louder.

“Congratulations! What’s his name?” The doctor asked.

“Jerome,” the mother said. In her head, she promised herself not to give birth again.

Meanwhile, the father of the boy, who was now holding the mother’s hand and faking a smile, absentmindedly nodded in agreement when he heard the kid’s name. Then he thought, “Weren’t we going to name him Simon?” But he didn’t say anything because he wasn’t sure of himself. Besides, he didn’t really care about names. He didn’t care about the kid either. Getting married was a blunder. He couldn’t wait until the kid got old enough to live elsewhere.

Baby Jerome cried again, but this time they put a tit in his mouth and forced him to suck on it. And the years went by.