At least I’m being honest, right?
Thing is, why or how I got to be some guy living in a remote mountain cabin writing the next great American novel is besides the point. Perhaps the hustle and bustle of big city living got to be too much. Perhaps I couldn’t concentrate with the constant fly-overs by commercial airliners. No matter. The reason for being there would be a moot point the minute your hungry lost abandoned-by-your-guides self showed up at my door.
At which point, if I’m being honest, I probably wouldn’t give you any food.