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 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. 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 named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles... there really is nothing like a shorn scrotum. It's breathtaking; I suggest you try it.
The details of my life are quite inconsequential
- Thread starter Coastheel1981
- Start date
So was Vilma 14 or were you 14? Because one way is creepy and the other way is still pretty creepy. Otherwise, cool story, bruh.
Evidently not. I thought I did though. Inconsequential detail of my life.
