My Life in Africa

I was born in Los Angeles to two movie star parents, who were constantly busy. It turned out that they didn’t really have much time to raise me, so at about 5 years old, they had grown tired of me, and decided to drop me off in Africa with a crate of supplies. I believe it was somewhere in the jungles of the Congo, but I can’t be sure. The supplies included a shiny new bicycle, some sunglasses, “grillz”, a crossbow, and a years worth of raw meat – unfortunately, there was no way to store it, so I had to eat as much of it as I could before it went bad. I was out in a month, and ended up having to make use of the crossbow. At 5, I wasn’t quite able to master it, but I was helped by a hammerhead shark with arms and legs, who helped me with precision aiming.

My parents came by in a helicopter when I was about 16 years old; I have no way to be sure, as I lost track of the time. They were a bit distracted then, and didn’t remember my name, but they had written in their schedule to fly over Africa in that year – it was August 11, 1985. When they finally picked me up, I naturally didn’t know how to speak, and I didn’t even know that people actually spoke until we landed some 5 hours later, as we rode in complete silence. Nevertheless, I was ultimately able to learn the English language, and while I never fit into society in the way I would have had I had a normal upbringing, I wasn’t a complete outcast.

Introduction

Welcome to my newest blog, where I will tell you about my fantastic adventures – it will probably function much like an interactive autiobiography. Unlike many other blogs however, this blog will be composed principally of lies. It may function sort of like a book with a linear progression, and it may be more all over the place, I don’t know. To be totally honest, I’m not exactly sure where I’m gonna take this blog. Anyway, let’s get on with it. I think I’ll start out telling you about my brother.

Terrence was a boy with dreams of grandeur, destined to change the world. It’s almost a shame, then, that I absorbed him in the womb. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate my life, but I sometimes wonder if he might have been better off “winning out” so to speak. That having been said, my real brother has certainly made his fair share of mistakes, and he would be the first to admit it. We both agree that the first and foremost of these mistakes was his first degree murder for which he served life in prison. I say “served” because he recently got out, or rather, escaped. From what I understand, he somehow got out with one of his prison buddies, and got a few more kills under his belt in the process.

Of course we can all sit in judgment of him, but are we really that much better? Sure, we’re not murderers, but are we not all responsible for some heartache? None of our hands are clean, so to speak. Having just referenced murder, perhaps this analogy is inappropriate – nevertheless, I stand by it.