Everybody has a life story, they just don’t know what it is. I certainly don’t what mine is, but I’m rather hopeful that it goes up something like this:
I’m going to go to college, where I’m going to meet a nice, moderately attractive girl who loves James Joyce just as I do and I’m going to marry that girl and we’re going to move to Vancouver or something where she’ll cheat on me with her piano teacher and then I’ll write a novel about it and use up all the money I get from the novel on a binge drinking streak. Then, my work visa will expire and I’ll have to move back to the USA, where I’ll be empoyed as a grape-picker in sunny southern California. Once I’m there, I’ll breath in too many lead paint fumes from the hovel where I live and I’ll have a violent hallucination where I talk to Force César Chávez and he tells me to flood my school, which doesn’t even make because I won’t be going to school at the time, and so I’ll ignore him and end up having to flee the country to Colombia when I get falsely accused of trying to assassinate the Governator. I’ll write another book, this time about a young American who falls in love with a Sri Lankan prostitute and dies of AIDS and then one night walking home from a cinema in Bogotá I’ll be mugged and left for dead for a few paltry pesos. So it goes.