micah

What can I possibly say that my publicist hasn’t already gotten printed? Well, I attended Eaton until they found me hiding in the chapel. After that humiliation, I refused point blank my fathers demands concerning Oxford. He cut me off from my allowance then and there, so I told him where he could stick his 9 quid a year (not to mention those damn loafers), and I traveled to the Encantadas, where I saw the face of god. Most of you may already know this next chapter, but Charles and I argued over some new theory of his about species development, and after that miserable argument—where I was thoroughly thrashed by a dead, 19th century English biologist—I returned to my home state of New York to find it in a state of shock after some lunatic Evangelicals in the surrounding countryside elected an illiterate to the presidency. Closing myself off to politics for the 57th time in my life, I concentrated on my craft, and within a few years I could almost, but not quite, create something that seamed to resemble, albeit not entirely, a friendship bracelet out of colorful thread. As with many of my endeavors, I was unable to give the aforementioned completed bracelet to the intended recipient, as both of us had not seen each other in 12 years, and I (at least, I cannot speak for her), had fallen in love with another woman, wooed her, broke up with her, wooed her again, got broke up with, then wooed a third time for charms and marriage. Really, if you look at my life, it’s your typical boy meats girl, girl loses boy, girl gets boy, boy loses girl, boy gets girl, and boy gets married and ends his wild and exciting days on the world crochet circuit for the quiet life of the east Bronx. Now in my autumn years, I sit regularly by the fire writing my memoirs about those many luncheons I had with Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway in the Provence region of Saskatchewan, drinking cocktails and Molson Golden Canadian beer as the majestic moose scampered by under the afternoon sun (or were they Llamas?).