Why I'll Never Grow A Mustache

Next month is my twenty-ninth birthday. No, April 20th is my twenty-ninth birthday but it’s also Adolph Hitler’s birthday, which is why my mother insists my actual DOB was the day I was due, not the evil dawn at which I prematurely arrived.

[This post is an excerpt from Diary of a Heretic, the novel. Click here to read the first episode, or here to read the previous one.]

This morning, I recalled reading in an astrology book that those born on April 20th can, when speaking to crowds, project an extraordinary power over them.  Isn’t that stupid?  What astrological caveat goes to those born on Hitler’s birthday? ‘If you don’t watch yourself, you might murder six million people?’

So whenever I start wondering if I could be a genuine prophet, double my idiocy, why doncha?  I can’t take this.  My head aches.  The shop’s in ruin.  Everywhere I look everything is pure and total shit.

(Click here to read the next episode.)