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The details of my life are quite inconsequential...
very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy
and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen 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 possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers
in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten
with reeds- pretty standard really. -Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery
Hey guys, here are all the pictures I forced you folks to take this weekend.
Enjoy
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