My life is a crossbreed of a disaster documentary and a thriller. I moved a lot and often until I finally settled in my sixth country. Things eventually calmed down… sort of. Come on, I can’t have a peaceful life. I have to, at least, get a fixer-upper from hell with neighbors that keep things interesting. If I go a whole month without my foot going through the floor or an old, intoxicated lady asking me if I want a dead cat in a box (there was no dead cat. She hallucinated it), then it won’t be my life.
I could probably write a memoir, but who would believe this nonsense?