Welcome Outta the Vagin' and Into the Cosmos: A Birth-Day Celebration

Congratulations, you made it! One minute you’re hanging out in the ultimate VIP lounge—a rent-free, all-inclusive womb with room service and mood lighting—and the next, boom! Welcome to life. You’ve been evicted. The rent is due.

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Welcome to Hell: Your Birth Certificate is a One-Way Ticket"

Congratulations! You’re here. Not by choice, of course, but let’s not dwell on the details of how you were unceremoniously thrust into the cold, fluorescent-lit world like a contestant on a game show where nobody wins. The fact that you exist—crying, naked, and bewildered—should tell you everything you need to know: this isn’t heaven. It’s hell. And your birth was the opening act.

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Chapter 1: The Exit Strategy

Let’s not sugarcoat it: leaving your mom’s cozy uterus was no small feat. You didn’t just "arrive" on Earth; you were forcefully launched like a human torpedo. The eviction notice? A series of contractions that felt like Mother Nature yelling, "Pack your things! You're outta here!" And out you went, probably screaming, "I WASN'T READY!"

If birth were a concert, the vagina would be the stage curtain. You didn’t exactly gracefully step onto the stage of existence; no, you were yanked out like a drunk bachelorette during karaoke night.

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Your birth wasn’t some grand, celestial celebration of life; it was a violent, messy eviction from the only place that made sense—your mom’s womb. You went from floating in peaceful, amniotic bliss to being shoved headfirst into a world where the first thing they do is slap you. Welcome to Earth, kid. The line for suffering forms to the left.

And let’s talk about your first breath. Oh, that burning sensation in your lungs? That’s oxygen mixed with disappointment. It’s the universe’s way of saying, “Get used to it.”

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Chapter 2: From Darkness to Fluorescents

The first thing you experience? Bright-ass hospital lights and masked faces staring down at you like you’re an alien artifact. It’s the ultimate betrayal: you leave the warm, watery cocoon and are immediately met with the cold, harsh realities of Earth. A slap on the butt? Really? What a way to say, "Welcome to the planet!"

Also, your first outfit? A blanket and a hat. You went from floating naked in amniotic luxury to being swaddled like a burrito. You didn’t ask for this life. You were fine being a tadpole with dreams.

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Chapter 3: Welcome to the Cosmos, Kid

Here’s the kicker: no one tells you that life is just one long chain of ridiculousness. Oh, you thought squeezing out of a vagina was tough? Wait until you try paying taxes or sitting through a 9-to-5 meeting where Steve keeps saying "circle back."

Your birth certificate isn’t just proof you exist—it’s your membership card to a weird, chaotic club called Earthlings. And spoiler alert: there’s no manual. You’re on your own, kid.

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Chapter 4: Your First Cosmic Crisis

Life immediately throws challenges at you, like figuring out how to breathe (no pressure!) and convincing your parents not to post embarrassing photos of you on social media. The cosmos isn’t all stars and planets—it’s diaper blowouts and teething.

But hey, at least you didn’t have to fill out an online application to be born. Could you imagine? “Why should we let you exist? List three references and describe your five-year plan.”

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Chapter 5: The Cosmic Joke

If you’re reading this, congrats—you survived the grand cosmic joke called birth. And sure, the journey out of your mom’s vagina was messy, loud, and downright traumatic, but so is everything else in life. You might as well start with a bang... or a push... or a C-section. Whatever works.

So here’s to you, little astronaut, launched from the womb and into the cosmos. The universe awaits. Just don’t expect it to make any sense. Cheers!

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Life’s Welcome Mat: Pain and Bills

The delivery room itself is a metaphor for the rest of your existence. It’s cold, sterile, and full of people pretending to know what they’re doing. You enter screaming and leave confused. The first thing you’re handed isn’t a guidebook or a survival kit—it’s a bill. They don’t even wait until you can hold your head up to remind you that everything here costs money.

Your birth certificate? Oh, that’s not a celebration of your arrival. It’s your entry pass to a lifetime of existential dread. Look closer: it’s really a receipt, proof that someone’s paying for this cosmic joke, and spoiler—it’s you.

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Proof You’re in Hell

1. You Need Food to Survive: You just escaped a place where all your nutritional needs were delivered straight to your belly. Now you have to cry and scream for sustenance like a contestant on Survivor.

2. You Age: Nothing screams “hell” quite like the inevitability of wrinkles, bad knees, and taxes.

3. You’ll Never Understand Taxes: Seriously, no one does. It’s just suffering disguised as math.

4. People Keep Posting Your Baby Photos Online: Imagine starting life with your dignity already compromised.

The Hellish Punchline

Here’s the kicker: nobody asked for this. You didn’t fill out an application to be born. There wasn’t a job interview. You were yanked into existence, handed a body that constantly malfunctions, and told, “Go figure it out.”

The universe didn’t gently guide you here—it shoved you, laughing all the way. You’re stuck in a world where traffic jams exist, avocado toast is overpriced, and you’re expected to be grateful for it.

What Now?

Your existence is proof that this place isn’t paradise. But hey, you might as well laugh about it. After all, if life’s a joke, then birth is just the punchline nobody got. So welcome to hell—don’t worry, the heat is free, and the misery is endless. Cheers!