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I was born just as the sun was reaching its highest sunspot activity in fifty years. As my first piercing screams ripped the misty morning air, deer lifted their heads and squirrels paused in their daily nut-hoarding as if reminded of a time early in their lives when they made a poor choice in a public situation.

A series of indifferent and ignorant teachers and authority figures ignored the signs of my great destiny. They dismissed my majestic eyebrows, already bushier than those of a man of seventy, as a hormonal quirk. They suggested to my mother that the scent of baking bread and good, healthy soil that surrounded me was of no import. When goblin kings and huge men from the dark side of the moon arrived in my classes to pay tribute, they were sent away. And thus I was suppressed.

It was not until I went away to college, at the University of California at San Placebo, that I was allowed to know that I was special. This was largely because all incoming students are denied food, a soft bed, and outside contact until they admitted that everyone is special, but I knew that for me it was true. I had always suspected at the back of my mind, near that little skull-bump, that I was something more than a man, that I was what the ancients called "one who leaves food on his plate at a buffet but is never charged extra for it even though the sign clearly says he will be."

Slowly, over the years, my destiny has been revealed to me one piece at a time, but mostly the pieces are blue with a little bit of white. I think they're part of the sky section. Only recently have I been able to assemble some of the brown pieces into what I think might be a bear or a wheelbarrow. I expect a breakthrough soon. You will be notified, either by me, the major media, or firey letters lighting up the sky on both hemispheres.