I’ve never told anyone this, but there’s a good chance Jim Morrison, you know, from the band the Doors, could be my father. My mom was working at a head shop in the late-’60s when Jimmy (that’s what she called him) came in and bought a year’s worth of incense. It was basically love at first sight. They were together for a short period but it eventually fizzled out because of Jimmy’s drug use (which eventually killed him in 1971). Still, my mom was a forward thinker and thought someone should carry on Jimmy’s genes, so she kept a little container of his man juice on ice for safe-keeping. In January of 1979 that little cup of frozen spunk went missing; 10 months later, I was born. My mom refuses to talk about it. Keep reading »
