I am a human who was mailed to the wrong adress at brith, I was meant to have been born to a middle class family in England in 1889. Then, because my parents were anti-monarchy, we would have moved to Ireland in 1904. Then to escape the war in 1916 I moved to New York. It was here I founded my publishing empire, I never married. I adopted a dog in 1920 who I named Napoleon, when he died in 1930, I sank into depression, and three weeks later my body was found in my penthouse apartment, it was ruled a suicide but conspiracy theorists insist it was murder. I was cremated and my ashes scattered in the hills near my childhood home in Ireland. My publishing empire was divided among my relatives in Ireland and England and eventually went bankrupt due to bad management. A documentary was made about my life in 1980, it suggested that I was murdered by Irish extremists for an article published about the troubles in one of my newspapers.
So that is my life as it was meant to have been lived. But as mentioned I was sent to the wrong address, and so here I am, in a life that is not mine.
This post will seem weird in the morning, but it makes comlete sense to me right now.