sooboring

The details of my store are quite inconsequential. My father was a relentlessly self improving boulangerie owner with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a 15 year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question-mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy; the sort of general malaise that only the genius posses and the insane lament.