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Country: Holy See (Vatican City State)
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About me: Oh, hello there—allow me to introduce myself, though honestly, you probably won’t remember a single word of this because who even reads bios anymore? Anyway. My name is Reginald Percival Thistlebottom III, but you can call me Reggie, or Percy, or just “that guy who won’t shut up,” because honestly, I’ve been told that a lot. I was born—well, not born, more like gently extruded—on a Tuesday in nineteen-eighty-something, under a full moon that my mother swears was actually just a streetlight reflecting off a puddle. My childhood was uneventful, except for the time I accidentally joined a cult of interpretive dancers who worshipped the letter Q. I lasted three weeks before they kicked me out for pronouncing it “kwuh” instead of “kyoo.” After that, I spent my teenage years perfecting the art of passive-aggressive note-writing—my magnum opus was a four-page rant about how the cafeteria’s mashed potatoes were “emotionally unavailable.” Educationally speaking, I attended the University of Life, majoring in Existential Dread with a minor in Procrastination Studies. My thesis, titled “Why Bother Finishing Anything When the Heat Death of the Universe Is Coming Anyway?” earned me a solid C-minus and a participation trophy shaped like a question mark. I later audited a course in Advanced Nonsense at the prestigious Institute for Things That Sound Smart But Aren’t—graduated summa cum laude in bullshittery. Career-wise, I’ve held every job imaginable: barista (fired for over-frothing), dog walker (fired for talking to the dogs more than walking them), freelance ghostwriter (specializing in apologies nobody believes), and once—briefly—professional line-stander at theme parks. My proudest moment? Holding spot number forty-seven in line for the new roller coaster for seven hours, only to realize I was actually in the wrong line for the gift shop. Romantically, I’m single, but only because every partner I’ve ever had has ghosted me after I insisted on reading them my entire family tree aloud—starting with Great-Great-Great-Uncle Bartholomew, who once lost a duel to a pigeon. I now date exclusively via carrier pigeon, because at least they don’t block you. Hobbies include: collecting vintage lint, arguing with autocorrect, and maintaining a personal blog called “Things I Didn’t Need to Know But Now You Do Too.” Current subscribers: one. Me. I also enjoy long walks on the beach—mostly because I like watching people trip over my shoelaces, which I leave untied on purpose. In conclusion—yes, I know this is supposed to be a bio, not a novel—my life is a slow-motion train wreck that somehow keeps chugging along, fueled by caffeine, spite, and the faint hope that one day someone will actually finish reading this. If you’ve made it this far, congratulations: you’re officially dumber than you were five minutes ago. Now go do something useful. Or don’t. I’m not your mom.
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