A diabolically cruel book, forced upon me as a small impressionable child by the uncaring automatons laughingly presented to me as teachers.
Little did I suspect that after wading through approximately 15 pages of crudely rendered lifeless 'art' and vacuous 'do butterflies open a sub-space portal to the neeeerb dimension when it rains?' text, that there would be no definitive answer! No answer! My still formative cognitive structures cluster-fucked all over themselves in an orgy of grief, anger, disappointment and no small amount of an urge to kill and kill again.
Within seconds I lost the ability to read, speak, hiccup and move. Following five long years of catatonia (my parents sold me to a children's clothing store) I regained the use of my fingers. This was some consolation, and I celebrated by urinating.
A few years later, after launching myself through the display window and attempting to strangle someone's poodle (I was unaware at the time that it was actually F. Scott Fitzgerald), I was sold back to my parents. Unfortunately, they had been dead for some years.
Life on the streets was cruel, yet friendly. I regained a rudimentary grasp of the english language by watching a T.V. playing Gilligan's Island (episode 6) in a 24 hour loop, that I could see reflected from an oil puddle proximal to the storm drain I was sharing with some CHUDs. I also developed my talents for fetishizing schoolgirls by imagining some of the cast members in gingham and lederhosen. Particularly the Professor.
Given my background, I was naturally attracted to the corporate sphere. My first high-tech startup company specialized in Smurf simulation software for the military. Unfortunately, many Smurfs died in initial testing, and I became disheartened. My new age ambient music CD "the sounds of the seal clubbers ... bludgeon odyssey" sold well, and I was able to start wearing pants again.
Eventually...after my "post-apocalyptic war zone" and "blue" periods ... I tracked down the publishers, writer and artist associated with 'Where do Butterflies Go When it Rains?'. I initially considered eviscerating all parties involved with a spoon. After reconsidering the gravity of such action, I did it anyway. My teacher wasn't so lucky.
I still don't know where butterflies go when it rains. That irks me.