The details of my life are quite inconsequential. Very well, where shall I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The kind of general malaise that the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian monk named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There is nothing like a shorn scrotum. It's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.
