The story of my life is not one for the meek of heart. It, as the lives of most humans do, begins with my birth. My father, an African businessman, met my mother at a business conference in Tokyo, Japan. He bought her for 267 yen (approximately $2.37). At the impressionable age of twelve, she was impregnated. The news devastated her. She began heavily drinking. Three long years later, I was finally born, ready to see the world. I was an astonishing four pounds, three ounces. My mother grew very sick, and eventually, my father killed her. My father wanted me to learn the family business, so at the age three I traveled with him to the wonderful country of Ghana. The natives kept asking if we were cops (they seemed rather paranoid in general); it was very strange. I grew frightened. I fled to beautiful mexico, never seeing my father again. I soon found that the country, though brilliant in it's on right, had no available jobs. My two closet friends and I embarked on the long and terrifying journey to America. We thought crossing the border would be a tall task, but found that we simply just had to walk across. Here I assumed the identity of a rather large woman named Taylor Braswell. I'm a sophomore at Asheboro High School and my father has yet to track me down. I pray to the air everyday that he never will.
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