I grew up in North Carolina, the son of a penniless, peg-legged sharecropper and a cross-eyed taxidermist. I never seemed to fit in at school, largely due to a full set of teeth and a lack of inbreeding. My teachers regarded me as a troublemaker, partly due to my insistence that the Abolitionists weren't "effete liberal tree-huggers" and that Hitler was in no way French. I also found it difficult to socialize with the other children. Partly because I was simply shy, partly because I couldn't afford to get all gussied up like my more affluent peers, I could never quite bring myself to attend the weekly lynchings that provided the primary means of socialization in our cozy little town. I spent most of my days reading the works of Marx, Sartre, and Seuss, eventually writing an anthology for my own edification entitled, aptly, "The Cat In the Hat Produced By Wage Slaves In the Ultimately Pointless Void."
I grew older in the humid southern heat, and like many boys my age, my first sexual experience consisted of awkward, dimly-lit gropings with a liberally-minded sheep named Muriel. Apparently in my attempt to sneak a copy of "The Joy of Sex" into my bedroom I had mistakenly grabbed "The Joy of Cooking." Though generally tolerant of my inept fumblings, Muriel drew the line when I attempted, in the heat of passion, to douse her in a light mint cream sauce and baste her to a golden brown. We have not spoken since.
Actually, I was valedictorian of Chapel Hill High School, went to Harvard, worked at Microsoft, became a developer at Microsoft Research's Silicon Valley lab, got my master's at the University of Washington, and eventually came back to grad school here at Harvard University under the benevolent guidance of Margo Seltzer. I'm in my second year.