I have been asked to write a book: but on what? Something believable?

Below is an excerpt from one of my first attempts. As a psychology major, can you tell me what I'm doing with my sample and why?

"Quite frankly, I gave up all hope of ever writing a book decades ago. What you are now reading is not really a book at all; it is, well, a publication in denial of itself. Let me tell you, it is no easy matter locating a publisher willing to print a manuscript that doesn't even exist. But here it is in all its unpublished glory. Needless to say no one ever showed up at any of my booksigning events. Let someone else do the writing. I just can't be bothered anymore.

I wasn't always so clearheaded about my own lack of writing skills and here is where my story doesn't begin.

I, like most of you out there, found myself in the unenviable upside-down position of being born March 6, 1956 at the Salvation Army Hospital in Niagara Falls Canada. My mother says I was so cute that another set of parents who happened to be in the maternity ward at the same time wanted to make a trade. Fortunately my mother saw the dark humor of it all, smiled courteously, and held me ever closer to her bosom as she hastily searched for the nearest exit. She also told me that the youngest of my three sisters screamed at the top of her one-year old lungs when I was initially introduced to all as the newest member of the family. That was the first word I ever heard my sister say to me. How else was she to articulate an otherwise inexpressably joyful Kodak moment? I hesitated to sign an autograph for her only because I did not yet have the writing skills to do so.

They tell me I was a brat when I was young. Always spying and always telling the commander-in-chief of the family whenever I saw any civil or criminal laws being broken inside the home. I was the spoiled one being both the youngest and the only boy. So far I was seeing things exactly as they aught to have been. My parents were slaves and my sisters merely interesting biomasses. Now go get me another glass of cold milk and some chocolate chip cookies and remember I don't like to be kept waiting. From a very early age I realized we lacked sufficient numbers of mirrors in the home.

By age 6 two things happened that completely destroyed my worldview and served to humble me: Santa Claus was a fraud and school. What do you mean school? Everything's been fine up to this point. I can take the fat man not coming down the chimney anymore but this education stuff has just got to go. I appealed to my then legal representative about the matter but he was too busy on another case involving employment vs poverty.

The first day of school I learned about the thousand foot stare. The keeper of the gate was another boy roughly the same age as me but taller and who kept pacing back and forth in front of the locked doors, obviously looking for the denizens of his overturned ant farm. And there, hidden behind the shadows of an early morning light, IT stood...silent...beckoning...bewildering; IT was - a book! Now don't get me wrong, I had seen books before. My dad had shelves and shelves of the stolen texts, all neatly categorized according to their respective color scheme. But these books were different. They were - interactive! Forever gone were the days of blissful coloring of text and trapping of insects between pages. These school books were evil. They wanted me dead. Now it was my turn to scream!"