My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a French woman named Chloe with webbed feet. My childhood was typical: summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring, we'd make meat helmets. When I was fourteen I received my first scribe. When I was sixteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved me.