I have been a deep thinker since childhood, as my biographers would readily vouch. Where ordinary children would bicker over the sharing of a few chocolates, I would think deeply and THEN bicker over the sharing of those chocolates. Naturally, I became a philosopher.
Somehow, I could never get going in the morning. Used to have one hell of a time responding to the alarm clock. I asked my friend, a well read man and an existentialist, for advice. He thought deeply and told me I had better get my sartre fixed. He was right, of course. Even my wife has noticed this lately, and threatened extreme steps. Putting Descartes before divorce, she said. But she is a kind soul. And she Kant do without me.
In my early years, I fancied myself as a philosopher in the mold of Wittgenstein. I made the mistake of telling my colleagues and classmates about it. Ah, the folly and innocence of youth! They called me Half-Witt Genstein for the rest of the course, a blow from which I never recovered.
I even read Kafka, on the recommendation of a cute young thing, who said he kept her up all night. Well, I kept falling asleep over the dreary prose, truth to tell. She thought I might have been reading the Decaf-ka. Perhaps I was. Who is to know? And I never got the chance to keep her up all night.