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The very abridged version recounting untold tragicomic storied life of Matthew Scott Harris

I led a boring life.
The end.

All joking aside, now the epilogue.

As a bookish fellow born January 13th,1959
he attended school and got promoted
as a mediocre student,
who honestly nearly failed every grade
courtesy my nasty, short
and brutish doppelgänger,
who nixed, sabotaged, waylaid
me a little boy blue
(nothing but a representation of innocence),
who felt depressed
at the prospect of experiencing childhood's end,
and essentially tried to starve himself to death
courtesy Anorexia Nervosa
but mother dearest intervened
being a licensed practical nurse
whipped up in the blender
heaping spoonfuls of bananas,
molasses, wheat germ, et cetera
a veritable smoothie
à la pureed fruit drink
(harkening popularity
of said liquid refreshment
in Mediterranean
and Eastern cultures for centuries),
nevertheless, she possessed alchemical wizardry
to turn straw into gold,
she learned secret from "Rumpelstiltskin,"
matter of fact
as first and only born son
of Harriet and Boyce,
they willingly surrendered
their scrawny screaming newborn
to the imp of the pervert brainchild
(predicated upon phrase caveat emptor)
of an anonymous author popularized
courtesy a German fairy tale
collected by the Brothers Grimm in the 1812,
hence no surprise
the biological woman
(then in her mid/late thirties)
who birthed me
in the webbed wide world,
possessed the knick knack paddy whack
ways and means
to make grim reaper skadaddle
and make him temporarily scarce
during his debut appearance,
nevertheless suicidal ideation
schemes brooded but never hatched
nor became manifest destiny
throughout mein kampf
though the thought
to overdose on fluoxetine 
(generic for Prozac)
does flit hither and yon,
to and fro within the nooks and crannies
of sixty six year old
nearly petrified gray matter,
which body electric of mine
will be dedicated to science
with the knowledge me Abby Normal brain
bringing descendent of Doctor Victor Frankenstein's
tech savvy monster of the future
to life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness
purely generated like fine spun gold,
courtesy artificial intelligence,
yet possessing a characteristic glimmer
of the donor's aura, charisma,
karma, persona, et cetera,
an unexceptional human,
he Matthew Scott Harris
led (and still lives) 
a humdrum existence
(fifty years ago the tract 
and once sprawling estate 
known as “Glen Elm” 
happened to be in the sticks)
within southeastern
Montgomery County Pennsylvania
smarting from continually exhibiting hesitancy
to engage in the thick scrum of life
rather yours truly
figuratively and literally sat on the sidelines
never being asked 
to join patriot or reindeer games,
and when I got reluctantly linkedin (courtesy default)
with a particular team,
the other members
frowned and rolled their eyes
and sighed with resignation
stuck with the last person picked
aware that an immediate deficit
got consigned to them
guaranteeing disruption
to unbroken winning streak
acquiring the appellation of "loser"
and other attendant colorful epithets
long before Trump
popularized said sobriquet
even though both my parents
contributed their fair share
of verbally traumatizing mine psyche,
allowing, enabling and providing myself
as figurative punching bag,
nevertheless I out did receiving abuse
inflicting denigration of self by a long stretch
courtesy chance discovery
of self directed emasculation
experiencing emotional death by a thousand cuts
permanently scarring the body, mind,
and spirit triage
of he who wrote these words,
which modus operandi of literary expression 
offered him, especially in his later life 
(after the passing of those 
who begat him and eagerly subscribed 
to the biological urge to reproduce and adage 
"be fruitful and multiply," 
a phrase from Genesis 1:28 where, 
a blessing and a command 
related to procreation and population growth)
a catharsis and therapeutic exercise.
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