The details of my life are quite inconsequential.
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. A sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament.
My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we’d make meat helmets. If 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 fifteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritually shaved my testicles. There is really nothing like a shorn scrotum. At the age of eighteen I went off to evil medical school. From there…
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