About Me
The Cap's Headlines:
Who Likes Pudding, Kids? Forgive me, Uncle Bill.
TRANSFORMERS:The Kinsey Report!
The Cap: A Life
The Cap was born October 9, 1984, in historic Poole. was raised in Kinson, first at Wakely, then Frost, Road, later moving to St. Leonards, on the site of a plague hospital. He attained his troubled adolescence in Verwood, and now lives in West Moors, an ugly town, though it is not without its own history, there is a reference dating back to 1310, as La Mores, the property of a family of Norman extraction. Not the slightest trace remains of this lineage, though there is a Co-op, where I briefly worked, so things aren't all bad. I have spent a considerable amount of time in Verwood since my original internment there, preying on the kindliness of widows & orphans, kipping in their kitchens & drawing rooms. I was forced to leave them due to unpaid rent, &, in fact, it is still unpaid, to the sum of some £1,500; I will make good eventually. I have repeated this feat of hospitality-extortion in the quaint hamlet of Fordingbridge, widely admired for its giftshops, where I took rooms, but did not sufficently, by any means, repay the good that was shown me there. Again, there will be an accounting.
Work? A sad affair. An apprentice barman at a Fordingbridge tap-house, Steve, if you're reading this, sorry to run out on you like that, please don't track me down, I hate confontations, I'm nervous, I have a weak heart, and let's face it, not really worth it. Then the afore-mentioned, disastrous stint at the Co-op, followed by a long & uninteresting spell in a now long gone off-licence. A period of journey-man wandering ensued, before I returned to the mini-supermarket scene, AKA Tesco Express in West Moors- I wanted the set. A short & sordid career in the ranks of the part-time employed under-class. At least I get a snazzy box-cutter free!
Romance? Anything but. Future prospects? Morbid obesity, & dying when I'm 52. Vanity, vanity! All the days of your vain life you shall eat bread in the sweat of your face, and then you will die; for dust you are, and to dust you will return. We are open books, whose pages are caught in the breeze. We must strike a blow, dear boy!
My life has been rated:
My so-called life has been rated!
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