I don't know what it is that keeps me from
writing, perhaps a general malaise that is sure to pass. Here is a quote using
"malaise" and a clip from Austin Powers.
The
details of my life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do 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 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 highly suggest you try it.
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