In the waning days of last year (that would be 2005 as I write this), just as I was completing my Certificate, I was abducted by two mentally ill (OCD and Bi-polar respectively) foreign government employees who accompanied me to Tubb's Village Café for a round of French Toast and tuna melts and an impromptu quiz-show type interrogation. It was plain that this was 'all in fun', but I still felt not a little jumpy and out of sorts. When I adjourned to the Men's Wash Room for a much needed oppo research availability, I discovered to my chagrin that my former Press Secretary, Alphonsus Heims, was waiting there in the third stall to introduce me to what eventually became a rather severe flurineum addiction. I say all of this because it's important for anyone reading this to have at least the barest idea of where I was coming from in those very turbulent times.
So, once I crossed over into Latvia I knew I had my work cut out for me. You see, at about this time I had received my final stipend and was casting this way and that for a new way to make the 'ends of things' arrange themselves in what would appear to any unbiased observer as a 'chance meeting'. Once I extricated my wallet from an unobtrusive pile of discarded rusty knitting needles, I retrieved the one-way bus ticket that my former supervisor had gifted me the previous Arbor Day. You may choose not to believe this, but that ticket amounted to a 'get-out-of-jail-free' card and I wasn't about to lose even one second to get my ducks in a row or go out with a bang trying.
I stipulated to my estranged attorney, former Attorney General John Mitchell that I was basically 'done' with redheads and from now on it would be brunettes or nothing! When I arrived in Seoul, South Korea at 10:19 PM on October 12, 2011, my head was in the clouds but my feet were firmly planted in the muck and mire of quotidian existence. I never much liked fly fishing but now I had no choice. As a representative of the Future Farmers of America I had certain duties, even when, for no fault of my own, I smelled like shit (literally).
So it was that I marched myself up to the third floor, adjusted my hat, softly hummed a somewhat nuanced rendition of the Four Seasons hit Big Girls Don't Cry, grinned sheepishly at the receptionist, staged a multi-year battle with duodenal cancer, placed third in the Nairobi Ultra Marathon, opened a bartending school in the Azores and decided that I'd finally just 'had enough' of life (you know the feeling, right?). Yes, it pains me to admit it but I committed suicide not once but THREE times. Each attempt was successful, astonishingly so!
As annoying as it is, I, for some non-obvious reason, feel compelled to divulge that the above account is completely untrue, in each and every detail—a fabric of lies, if you will. If anyone reading this decides that now would be a golden opportunity for them to own up to their own half-truths, fibs, outright blatant falsehoods and self serving prevarications, now would be a very good time to do so in the comments below. Or you can just . . .....
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