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Ever walk into your apartment, open the fridge, grab that pitcher of kool-aid, and pour a nice cold glass to chill in the evenings while watching a football game ONLY to find that you left a have chopped onion on a plate while the pitcher was not sealed, which made a nice previously rich-n-sweet cup of red taste like steak with sauteed onions and mushrooms. Yeah, that happened to me for the superbowl. Yeah, I know, onion-flavored Kool-Aid. What would my high school classmates ever think of me?
Most of my life, I spent in barrios, slums, ghettos, favelas, and the projects. My father was strange that way, with all the moving around. (My mother died when I was young... Actually, she was murdered but I'm not here to discuss that.) We stayed with my brother's mother in Brazil in the favela da. Marta, I've never met him because we left his mother when she was pregnant with him. Last I heard, he was living in a nice house with a pool. I never learned Portuguese and he resents my father and I. That's how that goes. What I re in Brazil was playing on motorcycles going up and down stairs of narrow allies. I also shot my first rifle and killed an animal--a pig or goat--for some family who parted the animal to several families. I also remember trying real cocaine.
Mexico ed on my father for a few months so I lived in a barrio ed Neza-Chalca-Itza. My father fell in love with the drug lord's daughter and I distinctly remember a group of hooded men storming into my shanty and taking my father away whilst taking me somewhere else. I was told the he had to answer for his betrayal, but that I would be sent to America to work as a slave. What ended up happening was the drug lord's daughter had some friends and leaders in a rising rebellion ready to do her bidding and die for her. Many did. My father was safely moved to Bedford-Stuyfersent, New York City through the underground. Friends of her slain brother permitted me to reunite with my father under the condition that we would change our names and move India for a few years. We stayed in the slums of Mumbai for a few months until my father got an itch for business again. So, off to Paris we went.
My formative years were spent in Paris with artist and fashionistas. Again, my father made some friends and met some highly influential and attractive people. I have another brother from this period. In fact, I have three more but one was literally my age. Yes, we were born on the same day, same year, and same hour. We were miles in distance. His mother was an aspiring actress and model my father slept with while he did his short stint in the military and he was stationed in Europe enroute to the middle east. He had been shot and that's where they sent the special ops for surgery. He met her through a nurse that yes he was sleeping with. Apparently, they were always together on Champs-Elyses--the three of them. When he was mediy discharged, my father returned to my mother at which point I was conceived. My brother must have started in his mother's brewery the day before I started in my mother.s My twin from another mother and I became good friends. During my time in the slums of Paris, I learned all I know about French and the French people. My fondest memories are from there. I had my first kiss and lost my virginity there. However, strangely, I miss my brother's mother the most. Although she was a well paid model, she would always eat a boiled egg for breakfast and then a small dinner. By evening, when she was chilling with my father, she would always fart (quietly) and they smelled like the taste of those boiled eggs she ate in the morning. This is not a good smell. lol. My father often had to go to the corner store when she busted ass. Coincidence, non.
Recently, I left the US Military. I'm well travelled and well hung. I understand three languages albeit my speaking is quite off. Nevertheless, I can communicate within English and Romantic linguistics. My interest is in biology and economics. I'm a proud man looking for a good woman with an open mind. I don't have a job because I'm in transition. (good, now all the gold diggers have retreated)
One thing about my woman I can say because I've travelled the world is that I will not accept an obese woman. It's an American phenomenon that represents glut and an insult to the rest of the world. I want a woman that has control over her instinct to store fatty acids. I don't mind if you fart and they smell bad. No. That doesn't bother me. Don't be fat. I'm too proud of this country to be insulted in that way. None of the women in my life eat to such excess. I love a thick woman like you would find in the Caribbean with a good waist to hip ratio but I will not date the Michellin man or the Pillsbury Doughboy. Look at my body. I work out. I'm sexy and I know it. My farts smell like the taste of boiled eggs.
Write SEEKING AN ARTIST. Tell me about yourself. Buy a new skirt and heels for our first date. Show me how sexy you are. And I'll you.
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