Just to prove I wasn't lying in the "What things do you do that make you weird" thread.
I was born in a log cabin crafted of the finest balsa deep within the rocky mountains. It was easy to move, but we were often required to evacuate during the fall when the pine needles would rain through the roof like so many discarded rusty epidermics after a home game in Plano.
In spite of our rustic surroundings, I became aware of the majesty of the written word, and became enamored with the texts of such geniuses as L. Scott Leventhal and Peter Steinbrenner. Considered the yardsticks of technical writing, they were mainly so due to the fact they wrote manuals to rulers of all kinds.
My dreams were modest, but the most realistic of pauper demands are often dwarfed by the prohibitive cost of their implementation, in this case an army of scythe-wielding Gin-fueled agronomists bent on nothing less than the full ruination of western civilization at the hand of the almighty harvester. As such I was limited to merely the drafting of the technical manual describing the use of such appliances. Unfortunately, the publication source was not "keen" on my use of a completely improvised language of my own design featuring sounds made only while a shrimp fork is lodged in your soft palate.
Fortunately, it was in these early years that I was discovered by the traveling band of acrobats and other miscreants known as The Incredible Castillians. A misnomer, as to a man they were the most reputable lot you'd like to meet and be kidnapped by, and to my knowledge Castillians do not hail from Lower Saxony. But abscond with me they did, and we soon found ourselves in the snow-capped peaks of Mount Rainier. Now in these days, it was the fashion of the Seattle folk to wear a bright red lamp attached to an exceedingly long pole, so as to mark themselves for identification within the mist. This, of course, was decades prior to cell phones or intradermal tracking implants, and was the best method of locating friends. Though diversionary this partial anecdote may seem, it was also the custom of murderers, thieves, and all manner of ne'er-do-well to remove this pole as to make it harder to find the victim, or track the movements of the perpetrator. Thus The Incredible Castillians, who were only part-time acrobats, but full-time thieves (and rapists on alternating weekends) made great headway in the mists of the Seattle morn, stealing their share of crimson lamps before the patrolmen could see them. Thus they ran the streets with these indisinguishible electric lights in both arms, sometimes tucked under their legs. It was in this way that I witnessed my first personal tragedy, when my friend Carmen the Castigious found to his great despair that the Seattle trolley system, while convenient, is unwaveringly devoted to timeliness and will not brake when they see what they thought to be a hatchback driving slowly in the right lane.
I was able to compose his eulogy but his epitaph had been dictated years ago, stating "He died as he lived, covered in rubies and cursing all around him." Ironically, like my own epitaph will likely be, it was alarmingly prophetic. Shocked into action, I performed a citizen's arrest on the remainder of the Castillians from Saxony, and was immediately given the key to the city of Seattle. As it turns out, however, the key is largely ornamental and opens nothing other than a large box of Halloween candy from decades prior, stale and reeking of cat urine.
After eating my share of cat urine-laced Tootsie Rolls and Green Jolly Ranchers (obviously the only ones left), I battled my way to the Canadian wilderness, crossing paths with none other than Paul Newman. Contrary to his later political and social activism, he at this time was a vandal, carving "Redford is gay" into trees with a rusty icepick. Fortunately for him, I was unarmed, and only bid him farewell as I continued on my journey eastward...
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I'm thinking of just leaving it like that. The pace is broken and it goes nowhere, just as a good life story should.
