I woke up one morning, I thought to myself—I would often fantasize about recording my tales somehow. Then I remembered one of my master's many principles: "Do not begin a story with 'I woke up in the morning'. Everybody does that. That is the only possible means of beginning a day, stupid." One would most likely infer, from the preceding account, that my master is a harsh and judgmental being. That is not true—he is, in addition, cruel, demanding, questioning, question-loathing, and always full of rage. He possesses such an incredible amount of rage.
My master recognized me a couple of lunar cycles after my seventh year. He approached me with the oddest expression—as if he were searching my face for the answers to every question available. His had squinted, wrinkled eyes, skin slightly darker than average (not enough to cause suspicion), aged white hair tied in a bun with some sort of small, blue object; the image was burned into my memory. He stared at me for an awkwardly long period of time, and with a blank expression on his face said, like he would to a shopkeeper, "Ah yes, this one will do".
He explained to me that he would mentor me because, as he said, I desperately needed it. Initially, I naively assumed that he would teach me skills that would one day get me laid. My assumption was false, however, because his teachings merely caused me to excel in mental areas—not even the areas that the scholars studied, though, but things like "observation", "intuition", and "philosophy". He said they were crucial to life and survival, but I doubted him.
I don't know why I allowed him to mentor me. I took his crap for years, but never backed off. Maybe it was his hypnotic, eloquent speech that drew me towards yearning for more. Time and again he would intellectually challenge me, querying me on philosophical and moral conundrums, and being unable to solve them, time and again, I became intrigued by his explanation and thought process that led him toward the answer.
I remember he would sit on the stump of a tree for a large portion of the day, every day. Occasionally my questions would veer toward the stump. Some of these questions include:
"Doesn't that hurt your ass?" To which he would simply reply, "Shut up."
"Why do you sit on that stump so much?" And he would reply, "Why, it's my thinking stump!" He said that in a sort of sarcastic way, as if he were making me appear stupid (which, according to him, I am).
"How come you favor that specific stump over all other stumps?" I thought that this question would earn me his respect and appreciation, seeing as it was a moral question, but he retorted, "Because the other stumps are almost as stupid as you!" Then, as I lowered my gaze toward the ground in a shameful way, he added, "Boo-Hoo! I am not fair to the tree stumps! Now I am going to sit on all of them so they can feel secure!" The last part was unnecessarily rude.
As a result of some questions, I am not sure which, he would whack me with a nearby object, often resembling a stick—a broom, a branch, and one time he ripped off my shirt and slapped me with it.