do not know when I was born. I can guess. But I've never been certain. No one ever told me. I guess my parents didn't love me. They abandoned me on a small dirt road in eastern Poland when I was very young. A small band of roving bohemians found me. Gypsies. Plucked me from my soggy resting place. Raised me as one of their own. For years I learned to wrestle tamed bears. I wore baggy silk pants and ornately decorated vests. I ate fried kielbasa and boiled cabbage. Drank warm goat's milk and sung folk songs late into the night accompanied by the sound of uniquely handmade instruments: hubcap cymbals and tin can harpsichords and condom bag pipes. We lamented the moon until it sank below the horizon.

And when I tired of all this, my real parents found me. They hadn't meant to leave me by the roadside, but they had to, on account of the peasant uprising. They were Russian royalty, after all, displaced by the Bolshevik revolution. They had fled for their lives, for their wealth, misplacing me in the process. But they had searched, oh so hard they had searched for me. Having found their only son, we returned to their magnificent estate in Belgium. A family again…

And then I woke up. In my house. In my room. Next to my teddy bear… the manly kind, nothing too frilly or floofy. It has fangs. I lie awake, fresh from the world of dreams, clinging desperately to the hope that I really am some lost fragment of a royal family. They will find me soon. And I will be rich. And powerful. And I will wear tight pants and drink tea (pinky raised) each afternoon. And marry some noble woman I've yet to meet. An arranged marriage. Someone snooty and naïve, ignorant to the ways of the world. And I will have the weight of a nation on my shoulders and the complaints of a disgruntled people… And I'd have hemophilia… Ok, so maybe that’s not such a good idea. Fuck the royalty. I'm just a lost little boy. Peter Pan's peer. Distracted by dreams of something more, dissatisfied with a life I don't recall living.




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