I have no past

I have no past.

What did that mean? It was one of those random things that came out of nowhere, completely irrelevant to anything that was being said. It was like one of those writing drills where the psychiatrist is making you write words down at an extremely fast pace, so fast that you're not consciously aware of what exactly it is that you're writing. Then something suddenly jumps off the page that makes the psychiatrist gasp.
I have no past.
Before I even realized what I had said or why I had said it, there it was. What did I mean? Part of me didn't even want to acknowledge that it was said, but it was too late. Five attentive pairs of ears had deciphered the sound. Five faces stared into mine with confused and expectant looks. What was I to do? My past was not something that I wanted to talk about, but what else do strangers talk about? When you meet a new person, especially one of the opposite sex, there's this understood rule that you are supposed to ask them questions about their past. Where are you from? Where did you go to school? When were you born? I wanted to stop the questions, stop the superficial talk that inevitably was to follow. So I said the first thing that came to mind.
I have no past.

Concern. Worry. Confusion. Shock. Silence. An observer would think that I had just admitted to an obscene crime. Honestly, is it really that bad not to have a past?
What do you do when five handsome faces stare at you with a look between tender concern and utter confusion?

Change the subject.