I was born near the shores of the Seine. My parents were halfway through a worldwide bicycle tour. Mother lost control of the bicycle when the contractions started. She wandered onto incoming traffic and was killed instantly. It's presumed the impact caused me to be expelled from her. I landed amid a stand of cattails on the side of the road. Father turned to help but maneuvered too abruptly, flipping his bicycle, and plunging down the steep embankment to the water below where he drowned.
I was found by a band of shemale gypsies and raised as one of their own. Teaching me to read and write, they trained me as a tattoo artist so I could earn my keep. Many were the pitfalls on the way to understanding. One gentleman caught up with our troupe a few weeks after I had tattooed 'Foraver yers' on his shoulder. He wasn't very happy. On another occasion, a young lady asked for a tattoo featuring the name of her home state. Imagine her surprise when she found, adorning her right breast, the word 'Misisipi'.
I eventually learned the intricacies of the English language but chose to abandon the tattoo needles. I enthralled passers-by with tales of our travels. Strangers marvelled at the adventures of my shemale sisters. When I finished recounting an episode, my hat was passed around and usually collected a fair sum. I'd found a way to contribute.
Before long, my sisters decided I should write down these stories as a record of our way of life. They bought me a laptop and rigged the charger to a car battery. It was uncomfortable typing atop the hood of the car but I managed.
When the troupe disbanded, most of the shemales moved into old-age homes and lived out their remaining days entertaining the other residents with colorful anecdotes. The few remaining shemales, too young to live such a sedentary life, took jobs with major corporations and made their mark on the economic landscape. I was charged with sharing our stories.