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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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