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After seeing my parents dressed in their bake-sale garb, I could no longer face them. I left to pursue a mystical quest. Now all I needed was a mystical quest to pursue. I walked directly away from the bake sale, my parents crying and raping in shame. I wandered the streets of the city, oblivious to the prostitutes and cobblers hawking their wares, and just as oblivious to the policemen arresting the cobblers mercilessly. I roamed the city for hours, covering nearly three blocks and mangling my knees and palms terribly. I found a dry stoop to sleep in, and was somewhat happy to discover a warm 40 oz. bottle of Old English malt liquor stowed under a pile of old yellowed newspapers.

            I drank myself into oblivion that night, finishing nearly seven swallows of the potent brew. I fell into a deep slumber, from which I was not woken by the lumbering cockroaches mounting my skull in search of a meal or by the homeless men who found me in my sad state and brought me to a hospital.

            I woke the next morning in the geriatric ward of the local hospital/processed food plant. The doctors had confused me for a 74 year old hermit who was rumored to live in the very stoop I had been found in. When the doctors came to check on me, I informed them that I was not 74 years old, but only nine. They could hardly believe their ears, so they had me write down my startling news as well. When they decided that their ears and their eyes were not likely to be collaborating in a complex plot to fool them, they agreed that I must be nine years old. I was unable to feed myself or crawl very far at all, having been put into thick bandages and fatigued from my knee and palm injuries. Relying on the care of the nurses and meat packers, I somehow survived two days in that hospital/processed food plant. In that long period of time, I got to know my caretakers well. We came to be great friends, especially a nurse named Greta.

            Greta weighed four hundred and eighty five pounds, every ounce of her beautiful. She immediately took a liking to me, and from the first she saved the best scraps from the meat packers for my dinner. I dined on cow eyes and swine testicles, unaware that the poor fellows to either side of me had to make due with steaks and fresh vegetables. One night, over a candlelit dinner of pig skin, Greta convinced me to tell her my tale of woe. I could not resist her watery, bovine eyes, and I broke down in tears. While she cradled my head between her folds of flesh, I conveyed all of the sordid details of my two year long life up to that point. She joined me in my pathetic wailing, and, spilling rivers of tears over my miniscule body, she told me that I had gone though far too much for a nine year old.

            That night, Greta took pity on my wasted soul, and kept me company. I lost my virginity, at age nine, to Greta Q. Thenurse.

            The next morning, I awoke to the sweet sight of armpit hair and flab roll cheese. I quickly remembered our night of passion, and immediately asked Greta to stop being Miss Thenurse and become Mrs. Pseudonym. Inexplicably, Greta became furious! She picked me up by my ankles, and shouted directly into my face, “You son of a bitch! How dare you ask such a thing of me? Now give me my fifty dollars or I’ll be forced to call my pimp!” I began to cry, not understanding what had gone wrong. Wasn’t this the sweet, gargantuan woman I fell in love with those many hours ago? I didn’t have much time to consider the situation, as Greta suddenly pulled open the window in my room, and tossed me out as hard as she could!

            I flew through the air with the greatest of ease, a bandaged young lad with wounds on his knees. As I coasted over the city, I felt free of care. All of my woes were swept away by the treetops rushing by below. My mind was first emptied of sorrow, then fulled of happitude. I was blissfully entranced by the floating clouds above when I finally came to rest.

I hadn’t felt any impact, yet I was surely no longer flying. I looked around, and found that I was laying on a peaked mountain made of blue and white stripes. I crawled to the edge of this mountain, and peered down. A stunning portrait filled my vision. There was hay strewn about the ground, absorbing vomit. Scattered among the piles of animal feces were bits of detritus: a cigarette butt here, a human toe there. I saw toothless young men in soiled clothing wandering aimlessly, and pregnant fifteen year old girls smoking and staring sullenly at their footwear. My good fortune slowly became evident, my mystical quest, hardly begun, was at an end. I was at the circus!


Stay tuned for Chapter 3: “Pseudonym Hears a Who” or “Trapeze and Carrots”