Don't Read This

I was born in Rangoon and was raised by a one-legged goat-herder who suffered from halitosis, crunchy hair, and a cough due to cold. One day while I was out helping my goat-herding legal guardian collect a couple of stray goats who were bleating and eating our neighbor's poppies (they weren't really poppies...they were carrots, but he tried to fool us so we wouldn't eat his "upside down flowers"), I happened upon a book written by Mark Tween (yes, I know it sounds the same as that other guy, but trust me...it wasn't him) and instantly fell in love with book binding. It was beautiful.

Later when I was in high school (okay, prison, but they did teach us things), I decided I wanted to become an amateur milk homogenizer...so I went to finishing school (where I learned to finish things...like the folk tales I used to spin but never finish when I was a kid and an old plate of beets I refused to eat when I was eight because they reminded me of my Aunt Edna's blood boils)...and the rest, as they say, is history. Well, not the kind you'd read in a book...unless you happen to be writing a book about me, which would be pretty unlikely...unless you're my mother and someone raised you from the dead. She's not actually dead, but that's what she always screams at my brother. "You make me so mad, I wish I was DEAD!"