Of all of the thousands of memories that I have stored in both my journals and my mind, organizing them into an entire memoir would be extremely tedious and pointless. I doubt that I would be able to attain a sizable audience from my own species, let alone one that can even be registered in a county's statistics. This is why my papers are being sent to a publisher of a planet that I've spent most of my life on, locally known as Earth in this particular language.
Unfortunately, my memoirs do not contain anything on how to construct a ray gun, any blueprints for a faster-than-light spaceship nor how to tame a giant, mutant beetle whilst using a pair of tweezers. Instead, they are accounts of my dreary life of being a failure of a missionary for a civilization so advanced in its own technology but lacking in its own collective intelligence and practicality. Rest assured, if my kind had more of the latter two, my superiors would have conjured up far more effective plans of intergalactic outreach rather than resorting to sending off a few select men, one of whom with questionable mental health, to some mud ball out on the far reaches of this galaxy.
Why, of all the members of my adopted family that they have chosen, did they pick my brain whacked third brother, Troika Sous? I do not even want to bother counting up the number of times that he had embarrassed himself in front of our family, as if that would be unexpected out of that particular clan to others, for fear of remembering the number of times that he went on some of his so-called "nature streaks".
Well damn. I just went and put my foot in my own mouth that time. Fortunately I got accustomed to some of the Earthling's liquor to wash away those visions away into a dark corner, only to have them creep up on me at the wrong times.
I might as well start off on how I wound up being the adopted member of my foster family, but that's just too depressing. Of course, I could start off with my early childhood such as the times when I was making a damn good living off of selling my 'cures', tiny bottles of water and sugar pills, to those gullible ingrates. Those poor bastards bought my nonsense that these things could cure foot fungus, shrink green boils and reduce excess hair growth in the eyes, the first of which seemed to be the most popular complaint. That might be a great place to start, for I was awfully smart for my age because I told them that the water somehow 'remembers' whatever tiny ill fragment, such as a tiny piece of a fungus, that I've put in a great vat of water and this 'new' water will attack that person's ailments or something like that. They bough that nonsense and licked my water bottles up for nearly five times their actual price!
Of course, writing about those incidents might get me in trouble with the law and I'm too down to write about those uplifting times. Instead, I'm in a grouchy mood as of now and my best cure for that is not anti-depressants or downers that are heavily diluted by an astronomical, and ridiculous, amount of water. I found the best cure for grouchiness is actually quite simple.
Start complaining like the old grouch I am who feels that he's gotten the bones of life. And that's what I'm going to do, starting off with the first fiasco that had brought me to this planet in the first place, beginning each chapter with quotes that I have gathered over the years to sum up the basic premise.