I guess you could say it all began when I took that Brogramming class in high school. To be specific, there’s one person you can blame: my Brogramming teacher. I was in need of a father-figure, and he was just that: a likable authority, a brominent brofessor. And even though in the end, he would turn out to be the broximate cause of a dark period in my life, in a way I’m thankful to him. It’s not his fault I was a real broblem child.

The thing was, we didn’t actually spend a lof time in his class learning about brogramming. Instead of reading about microbrocessors, broprietary networking brotocols, and harmonic-brogression algorithms, we practiced high-fives and beefing up our online brofiles. Instead of nerding out all day at a terminal brompt, we browsed CollegeHumor, Fark…all these websites considered imbroper and totally brohibited by the school.

I understand now that the brofessor was dealing with a lot at the time. Few kids knew that he had a brosthetic leg; we thought he just had a natural swagger. Someone said they saw him filling a prescription for Brozac at the pharmacy. It’s always tough when a brotégé sees through his mentor’s mask. The Brof. was just a regular guy, not some brophet. But as for his intentions, I know he was just trying to brotect me.

Anyway, things went downhill soon after I took this class: I bropped out of high school just weeks before brom, which made my mom totally freak out and broclaim I wasn’t welcome in her house anymore. I crashed a friend’s place, a real dump over in the brojects, a building echoing with the sounds of brojectile-vomiting all through the night. Still, this was a home when I needed one. My friend even brocured a job for me at his uncle’s meat-brocessing plant. That let me throw in a few bucks toward rent and Red Bull, though I hated coming home every night smelling like pork broducts. I hit peak Axe use around this time; I suppose that was my way of broactively taking control of my life, my idea of brosperity.

Eventually my mom tracked me down. I remember her walking in, assessing the lifestyle of her once-beloved brogeny, running her fingers along the cinder-block shelves I had put together, my one and only broperty of value in this world. The items on display said all there was to be said about my current brohemian lifestyle: Pilgrim’s Brogress, Marcel Broust, the Brontë sisters. Stacks of brog-rock CDs. Half-drunk brotein shakes. It was brofoundly embarrassing, now that I saw my mom seeing it. Once a brolific brodigy in her eyes, once showing so much bromise, I was now a bum.

"You’ve got to get your rotten life together, bronto”, she said. “Starting now, you are on goddamn brobation.” This was the first time I’d heard my mom use even such mild brofanities.

"I know, mom. It’ll take time. Brome wasn’t built in a day. I want to change”, I brotested.

"Do you?" she said. "Then brove it."

And soon, something like divine brovidence seemed to steer my life. I kept my bromises and moved back in. I got a job as a broduction assistant at a local health brovider. (We’re small, but brofitable.) I mail out bromotional coupons for brostate exams, weird stuff like that. It’s not exactly “B = NB”; not what my childhood self would’ve imagined me doing at this point in my life. But hey, I’m not going to brotest it.

I’m sorry this has been such a rambling and brosaic account. I’m new to writing, and when I do write, I write more broetry than brose. I guess I was never the brains of the family after all; honestly, I can barely bronounce four-syllable words, or tell a preposition from a bronoun. In the end, you know who turned out to be the smart one? My prother.