After only a few short months of preparation (fourteen, if you count the nine spent in his mother's womb), he was being forced into the public life.
A birthday party.
This didn't suit him. He enjoyed sleeping. Peek-a-boo with the mother-lady was nice. Eating soft foods sounded like something he could get into, but the idea of crowds disturbed him. His innate fear of humanity told him it was a bad idea.
"There's a reason more and more popular cinema is focusing on Man vs. Man than any other conflict archetype," he thought to himself.
The pressure to perform, to meet expectations, seemed unbearable. How could he possible compare to the media-fed ideals people would have? There were so many hurdles. It would be far too difficult to succeed.
He started making a short list in his head.
Inteligence? No. He still hadn't mastered the speech thing, let alone proper social discussion techniques.
Ettiquete? Perhaps, but while he did occasionaly smelled of sea salt and canned pears, more often then not this was overshadowed by his innability to use silverware and the unsquelchable urge to spit up on himself.
Talent? Who was he kidding? He had months until he could walk, years before he could cary a tune, decades before the Mets would call him in to pinch hit.
Looks? Well here he had something. He was a little on the pudgy side, but bigger, more natural body types seemed to be in this year, and the stylish new osh-kosh-bgosh outfit he had recently picked up had always been a big hit around the house. It was then that he remembered his secret weapon.
His baby toupee.
"No problem," he thought. "I've got this thing in the bag."
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