Historians now theorize that Hitler had originally set out to pen a
children’s book and not a hate-filled and racist manifesto. They think that maybe his innocent work was
transformed because the A and the T on his typewriter were broken or that
perhaps he was just a really shitty typist.
I’ve had a backache the past few days and I don’t know how I
did it. Someone suggested that I may have slept on it wrong. I wasn’t aware that there was a right or
wrong way to do it. It didn’t take me
too many little league baseball games or kindergarten art classes to realize that
I wasn’t exactly overburdened with talent.
I have shouldered my mediocrity and carried it with a certain dignity
bordering on pride at times. We can’t all be star athletes or award-winning
scientists. It’s not like I even give a
shit that I never caught a touchdown pass for my high school team or mastered
the piano well enough to give a concert, but to think that I can’t even sleep
right has come as a crushing blow. I
wonder what else I may be screwing up.
The Muslims may have invented the concept of zero but in
Arabic they have no word for “scantily-clad.”
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