My Life as an American Gladiator is one year old today.

It can now crawl and speak in engimatic blather. It is beginning to know the difference between right and wrong, even though it usually opts for wrong. Its resale value has depreciated greatly, its bunions are giving it trouble, and it is starting to be embarrassed to be seen with me at the mall. It is fresh from its first bout of self-recognition, and is reeling from the trauma of the mirror-phase. It is stockpiling food and weapons. It is sneaking drinks into Disneyland. It sleeps in the fetal position, with its little knees tucked up under its chin, though it would deny this. It is an underachiever. It can already beat me at chess, though I am better at darts, because I have arms. It is beginning to suspect that free will does not exist. It hates New Age music, but harbors a secret desire to play the keyboard.