I was raised by a pack of wild dogs for the first 7 years of my life before being taken in by a kindly hobo named Boxcar Don Giovanni who had a real thing for jack in the boxes and show tunes. We'd ride the rails from Delware to Connecticut, care free and covered in filth, for weeks on end.
This all ended in 1989 when I killed Boxcar with a sharpened spoon during a disagreement over some yogurt covered raisins.
Afterwards I took up needlepoint and made a decent living selling crocheted panties to retirees.
Lately I've taken up drug abuse and alcoholism.
