Who are I?

Whether they come from the coasts of California or hairless nether regions of Brazil, many of my fans have been asking themselves one question: who the hell does this Terrence Paquet guy think he is? To that I would usually answer Lord Fauntleroy of Kingsbury. 

But that tight-wearing period of my life is all behind me now as I have matured into a modest man with a modest collection of well-written, short stories who just wants to live modestly in a large, auditorium-sized villa (modestly furnished, of course) in a gated-compound protected by modest, blood-thirsty Dobermans. 

A man who wants nothing more than to enjoy the simple pleasures of the unpretentious countryside of Umbria, whilst I savor the pedestrian pleasures of modest lobster, unpresumptuous caviar, and humble champagne culled from the modest vines of my modest, private vineyard in the country of France... as my wife and children frolic in an Olympic-sized, heated swimming pool filled with Perrier water (that I purchased on sale). 

A pool that meekly sits next to the Wimbledon-inspired tennis courts, across from the maid's quarters, on the south side of land, away from the quarter-horse stables and non-descript, city-sized amusement park. Which will, of course, be located behind my own private, yet humble and modest shopping plaza staffed by beautiful b-list celebrities who will cater to my every whim and desire. Humble ones, of course.

Is that too much to ask?