Superhero, Go! - Posting Challenge, Day 6

(Also be sure to follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me!)

All right, today I suppose I should be a little less obscure. Because I could be, you know. I have some severely weird superhero picks. ;)

However, I feel my mainstream choices are a little too mainstream as . Not because mainstream is bad, mind you, but because they are 1) all men, and 2) well known to the point that if you have to ask why I like them, you weren't paying attention.

I'll give them a quick cover anyway. Very quick.



Spiderman. The chuck-out-of-luck Peter Parker,  the only superhero who visibly struggles trying to balance putting food on the table, romancing his girl, and saving the world. One of the few (aside from X-Men, who overblow the concept to ridiculousness) who receives flak for just trying to do what's right, and suffers persecution for it. In many ways Spiderman (at least as he was first conceived) is the Everyman, Joe Schmoe hit with something bigger than himself, and proving to himself and the world that absolute power does not have to corrupt absolutely...it all depends on where your priorities lie.

 Why this picture? Dude, cheesecake is cool. And how often do you get a comic book female who looks like she still has all her organs? Though, that could be just a trick of the webs.



Wolverine. Brash, brooding, all male stereotype, and yet his sensitive side runs deep. He's an interesting one in modern comics in that the sensitive, thoughtful, smart part of him doesn't often get downplayed. In fact, it gets embraced. However, they are careful not to call it "sensitivity," oh no, it's him 'struggling with his inner demons,' or 'being haunted by ghosts of the past,' or other male code for "not a psycho killing machine with no emotions."

Wolverine is all strength. He feels love deeply and takes the loss of it hard every time. He is strong enough to place his blades to a friend's throat and offer to assist in their suicide when under extremes, and strong enough to go through with it and live with the consequences should it become necessary. He is a bad-ass, no doubt, and can tear through bad guys like a chainsaw through a paper mache tree. But his true strength lies in what he can take, not physically (though that's damn impressive), but emotionally. His healing powers will never heal those scars, and with veritable immortality at his fingertips, he has to live with them forever. And he does, quietly, and without complaint. He is strength personified, and he blows me away.



Batman. His most formidable weapon is his mind, something modern writers tend to forget in the morass of cool gadgetry they give him, but that even now shines through. He appeared in Detective Comics because that is what he was. Is. A costumed detective with a chip on his shoulder and a sense of justice so superdeveloped he makes Lady Justice blush and swoon. He plays with the big boys, keeping up with superpowers, geniuses, and people so evil their very continued existence breaks the Geneva Convention, and does so with nothing more than brains and a lot of cool gadgets. Speaking of sensitive, here is a man who went so severely PTSD about seeing his parents killed before his eyes that he either flipped his lid, or went very, very sane. He could easily have walked away, drowned his sorrows in Margaritas and a nice beach, his only nod to his tragic past hefty donations to the local police force. Instead, he dedicated his life to protection of the weak, putting his money, all his formidable resources, and his very body on the line for perfect strangers.

Why? Because it's right.

Three very, very impressive men. But, nonetheless, mainstream and male, and I have no doubts what I see, others see as well.

If you want to know the comics that moved me as a child, set many of my values, and carried me into adulthood, look no further than Elfquest:





There are not words for my fandom when it comes to this series. My life would be a poorer, more barren place without it, as would be my mind and heart.

Before some deluded commenter (yes you, the one hiding behind my other two lonely readers) says something about "Ew, elves," and proceeds to rant about their effeminate, cultured ways, how overdone the entire concept has become, or talks about how they're just a masturbation fantasy for girls...let me tell you, everything you learned about elves is wrong.

They never lived here, they lived on a world with two moons. Beings of energy more than physical form, they took the form of myths from a world they were visiting, but something went wrong with their ship, and they crash-landed there instead, stuck in frail bodies. However, they emerged to find themselves in a time too early, faced not with a cultured mankind, but primitive man...and primitive man did not like what he saw. He drove them away from their ship, into hiding, and those he did not kill the harsh rigors of survival took, until only a few remained.

In desperation, one of their kind--the only one still capable of shifting her shape--turned herself into a wolf, determined to learn all she could of survival from the hardy beasts and bring that knowledge back to her people. But she sank into wolf form too far, and forgot them until she she became pregnant, giving birth to a halfling that was as much wolf as elf. It was ultimately he, not she, who taught the remaining elves what they needed to know, bringing them strength, ferocity, and a connection to the world they were now exiles upon.

And that's just for starters. The rabbit hole goes far deeper from there.

It's a series that astounds. Love without ownership, a fierce interdependence of individuals all working towards a greater whole, the closeness of family, a code of ethics that is sometimes rigid but often must be determined on the fly, mistakes made and forgiven--sometimes bad ones, sacrifice, courage, responsibility, and pure blissful joy...the wisdom carried by these little four fingered dwellers just amazes.

They count as having superpowers, some can shape plants, some fly, some shape flesh, some heal, some speak to animals, and some do nothing at all. But their greatest superpower seems to be in their absolute acceptance of self. They are as flawed as any creature, ill tempers, bad judgments, and foolish actions abound. But their strength as a whole lies in the acceptance that one is no greater than the other, and that mistakes are simply a part of life. They are happy within their own skins, which makes them content to celebrate the happiness of others.

And because no one is considered "lesser" than another, no one is waste. Every elf brings something to the table. Skywise has no magic, and he seems no greater a fighter, hunter, or provider than any other Wolfrider, and in many cases is less so. But he brings knowledge, questions, a desire to reach beyond that seems to have been part of the influence that made Cutter the extraordinary chief he became. Redlance waits a long time before his powers finally blossom, and he, like Skywise, has no great skills. But he is valued for his gentle, almost healing nature. Treestump is a special delight for anyone from a youth-centric world. His outstanding contribution is...age. The Wolfriders respect him for all he has survived, and they acknowledge his wisdom, though he is hardly the stereotypical "wise elder." Instead, he is more like the tribes equilibrium, a sort of father figure, and a calm rock to rely on, even in the face of danger.

And so it goes. Everyone has value because everyone's value is recognized, and not just recognized, but sought after. The assumption is that if someone isn't bringing anything of value, it's because whatever makes them valuable simply hasn't been found yet. And through all the adventures, through all the epic battles, through all the magic and mayhem that constantly seems to surround them, this concept is what stuck with me the most. It's an ideal way of relating with one another that humans barely know how to dream for, much less strive for, given an achingly tangible form.

I truly believe that the idealized society in this story outlines what the human spirit could be, if only we loosed our self imposed shackles and set ourselves free. And, I suppose, more than the elves themselves, Wendy and Richard Pini are superheroes in my eyes, for opening my mind to a world, a culture, an ideal I barley knew existed, and giving me the ache to grasp it.

High Ones' blessings on you, my friends.

Hiatus One

Updates to my 30 days may not resume until the 7th or 8th, at which point I will write and backdate all owed entries. I leave at 4:30 am to hop on a plane, and I fully expect to be jet lagged and strung out upon landing. While being on a plane may seem like a great time to write, I have 9 hours of flight time and only one hour of battery life. So you'll have to take my word, writing blog posts isn't about to happen.

Sorry kids.

In the meantime, watch one of my favorite videos:


For that matter, watch two:


See ya in a couple days.

Places I've Been - Posting Challenge, Day 5

I snagged links today! Also follow along with Tina, Jean, Krista, and Tambo as they say much more sane and less esoteric things than me. :)

Today's demand is a picture of somewhere I've been. Give me a minute.

I'm back.

Here you go:

 

Not what you expected?

Well, I could tell you about my life in one of five different states or around forty different cities and small towns. I could talk about the six or seven other states I have visited. I could speak of mountains, forests, scenic highways, oceans, swamps, fields, and deserts. I could talk of famous cities, of festivals and events, of clubs and nightlife, even of places that have briefly been home to me as I passed through area after area.

I won't. I'm not travel guide, and besides, you've probably already been there too. If you haven't, Google it.

I want to discuss something a little more...mythic. More surreal. Maybe even crazy. I want to talk about the place where I grew up.

Somewhere in the mind of every lonely child is a friend, just waiting to be imagined. And somewhere in the mind of every abused child is a still small place, a place they used to get away. And that a child suffering both, a creative, lonely, frightened child might create a populated world to flee to...it makes perfect psychological sense.

But it was real to me, real enough that it altered my entire life. It was a land where, in dark corners of the forest, trees bled and screamed. Where unicorns--real unicorns, not these pansy ass, horse-with-a-horn-Jesus-myth-virgin-loving-wanna-bes--were rare, beautiful, intensely magical...and were the terrifyingly vicious fighters of myth. (Seriously, I don't care how you depict a unicorn, but if you are drawing a horse with a horn, you're DOING IT WRONG.) It was a land with dangers around every corner and magic that was just a little too chaotic to be trusted, a war-torn land where children were disposable and people were suspicious and frightened even of familiar faces, and yet was also a land of incredible, awe inspiring beauty and endless, boundless potential.

I tried to write about it, in fact, spent most of my childhood locked in a battle with myself, trying to depict this inner world to my satisfaction. I eventually put that story down and moved on, after thirteen years of trying. I came to realize how difficult it was to capture, and if I succeeded in my dream, if I managed something so well that it could be published and shared but I made a mistake in that world, it would be cemented in print forever. The very thought felt like a betrayal. So I moved on to write stories about worlds that I cared about so much less. I still loved them, mind, but they weren't Home.

I suppose no one can capture the spirit of their home very well, even if they are writing pure nonfiction, and not about a world that lives in their head.

Maybe I'll take it up again, someday.

In the meantime...if you are following me through these posts, you'll recall I mentioned that I am a weirdness magnet. Let me leave you with a little weirdness that is--probably, maybe--all in my head.

But, you know? Maybe not.

Habits - Posting Challenge - Day 4

So today is all about a habit I wished I didn't have. There are so many to choose from.

I suppose I will astound friend and foe alike by saying...I wish I was a little more positive.

And before anyone decided to go get their hearing checked, let me qualify that statement--what I really mean is I wish I was less like my mother. I have had a vivid reminder of how my mother operates, and while there are many good things I could say about her, her doomday predictions make me was to slam her head into the nearest wall repeatedly. I had nearly forgotten how much her negativity brought me down or how deeply her doubts sliced into my self esteem. I have managed to curb the tendency to be that bad myself, but I have not quashed it.

Don't get me wrong, I will never be Pollyanna, and I never hope to be one. Too much sweetness and light tends to give me screaming fits, and I run put on dark music or angry horror movies to make the teeth grating cheeriness dissipate. I do not believe in the best of humanity, and I am a firm believer in Murphy's Law. In fact, I sometimes suspect I am Murphy's butt boy.

But...there is a limit. And it's a limit I often cross.

I'm not even sure how to tackle this one because I'm never sure when I'm doing it. Can't ask my friends, as every one of them has a different definition of "negative," and the ones living closest to me are the cheeriest. Honestly, I think they're genetically predispositioned to it somewhere in their DNA. All I really want is a better balance, and maybe a justified belief in the best of things again.

This one will probably take some thought.
And therapy.
And possibly a miracle.

...was that negative?

Me With A Friend - Posting Challenge - Day 3

Today's is both easy and hard--show a picture of me with friends.

Easy because, hey!, very little writing. (Creative punctuation, must love it.) Hard because...well...remember what I said about photos?

But it's not just that, it's that I have pics taken of me by friends, or with just one or two friends, but the picture I would wish to share would have all the people who should share the limelight, and that doesn't exist. So instead, I give you a picture of legs.






This was a Chinese New Years party.  And the legs you see before you was the natural fallout of drinking at said Chinese New Years party. It was great fun.

For a while, whenever a friend and I would get drunk, we'd tussle. We'd hit, but not too hard; we weren't out to beat each other up. Mostly, we'd wrestle. Two large breasted, long legged women in short skirts, trying to take each other down.

As a matter of fact, no, we weren't the life of the mostly male dominated parties. We didn't do it for the men, you see. We often started in a quiet little corner, and it would be after we'd chatted for a long time with no sign things were headed that direction. We tended to wind up like this, in a deadlock, with neither winning and neither losing, though we would end the battles like children:

"I won!"
"Nu-uh!"
"Uh-huh"
"Nuh-uh. I got you in the piggy-nose lock!"
"Well I got you in the over-the-shoulder-boulder hold."
"That was cheating! Bras are off limits!"
"They are not."
"Yes they are!"

...you get the point. Sometimes we'd tussle again, most times we'd go for another drink and dance.
I think our crowning moment of awesome was at a Con. Some guys had started beating drums quietly down one end of a hall, just for fun, not for show. We wandered down to watch, and then the mood of the drums took us. We circled and feinted and tussled  and wrestled and hit while the drums pounded, two girls just feeling their inner cavewomen. I think we were both aware the guys were grinning as the watched, but there was not a catcall to be had, not a word of leering encouragement said, just silence and the pounding of the drums. It was like a spell was cast over us all.

We never tussled again after that. Life took us in separate directions, and besides, that was a tough act to beat.

But I know what will happen if we ever see each other again, someday. We'll laugh, reminisce, drink, and sooner or later, with half forgotten drums in our heads, we'll tussle.

Name That Blog – Posting Challenge – Day 2

Today’s posting challenge is about the name of this blog–what, why, and where it comes from.



This is hardly mysterious. My last name is Grimm, and I set up this blog (originally) to be my writing blog. You do the math.

So instead I will talk about the name of my first blog, "Screaming in the Dark." I made that blog back in the 90's, back when the internet was so new it barely had graphics and the idea of sharing information was just as new. Back when I was pretty new, too, and trying desperately to navigate a life I was ill prepared for while dodging the demons that haunted my every step.

Anyone who knows me knows my life was never a picnic. Abuse, neglect, mental programs, and a lot of anger haunted my childhood. By the time I was seventeen my mother had had enough of me and threw me out of the house. By the time I was in my early 20′s I was a wreck. I barely knew how to make friends, I worked shit jobs for too little pay–so little that even holding down two or three could not pay my meager bills–and every day seemed just a little bit darker than the last.

Some good things happened, such as me discovering a place called Ravensguild. There I made my first lifelong friends, embraced a spiritual path I was finally happy with, and discovered that everything I said, felt, and thought was not wrong or stupid or immature. I was, for the first time, respected, and it was a revelation. It wasn’t enough to cure all that ailed me, but it went a long way to making me the person I am today.

But while it made my mental life easier, it did nothing for my physical one, and could only help ameliorate the worst of my lingering emotional effects. Bluntly put, they kept me sane, but they couldn’t make me a functioning human. I felt like I was drowning, physically and emotionally, that the light was going out of the world. Every day, every breath was a struggle, and I was ill equipped to deal with it.

But a friend in the Guild noticed. He only went by Wraith; it was all I ever knew him as, even though I have long since learned the names of most of the others. He didn’t speak often of his past, and what little I learned showed his to be far darker than mine. We spoke often. I told him what was going on with me, and he told me it was okay. It was okay to be in darkness. It was okay to drown.

See, I felt I was failing at life. I often still do. But I wasn’t the failure. In fact, nothing was wrong with me at all. Everything I was was a normal response to a fucked up existence. I was, in fact, a machine of survival, bred under harsh conditions to stand up to anything. What seemed broken was merely me breaking into a new world, a world where I no longer had those conditions to endure. I had to learn all new skills, and do it without a therapeutic ear, parental guidance, or really, any help at all. I was in the deep end–sink or swim–and I was going under.

I saw this world with a stranger’s eyes, and I saw more in it than those whom it had treated gently as children. I saw the hypocrisy, the double-speak, the lies. I saw it when politicians’ swindles made lives harder and closed doors. I noticed when people were subtly rude about my value, implying I had none because I was poor. I understood as my friends could not how and why the deck was stacked against me. And I ranted about the unfairness of it, even though every rant fell on deaf ears. People who hadn’t been there didn’t believe it, people who had and survived refused to think I could be different than them while those who failed also thought they were fully to blame for their failure. The first lesson I learned as an adult in this country that there was no mercy for people like me, and that I was more disposable than a week old McDonald’s wrapper.

I was mentally broken and scarred, severely PTSD, completely alone in the world without any familial support, I had no savings, and every goal I reached towards I had to achieve completely alone. Before you say it’s easy, imagine college without loans or grants, imagine your parents never washing your clothes, no friends to lend you money or take you out, no reward for hard work but more hard work. I was in a race with the rest of the world, but someone had moved my starting line ten miles back, broken both my legs, then demanded I catch up. Then, when I found myself floundering and begged for help, they told me my failure was my fault.

It was a hard coming-of-age, an awful one, and at the time I was unable to sort all the lies from the truth; even the truths I suspected I was reluctant to give public voice to. No one agreed (oddly enough, almost 15 years later they do but it took the collapse of an economy), and most told me I was full of it. So instead I whispered it to Wraith in private.

The pain I felt, the betrayal of my country, the double standard of outward politeness and subtle discrimination, the ghosts of my past trying to devour me, my feeling of culture shock and betrayal in my own home, a stranger in a familiar land, all the unnecessary trials I had to endure, and my fury at being thrown to the wolves…he called it “screaming in the dark.” He’d been there, talking into the blackness, into people’s apathy and their unwillingness to listen or learn. He’d raged against the world, a well founded rage, and been ignored, forgotten, dismissed. Disposed of. He’d screamed defiance against his own demons as threatened his very being, and he lived in that darkness still. We both did.

He taught me the darkness is okay. The fury, the pain, all of it is as right to feel and embrace as joy or love. Getting rid of the emotions only numbs you, but it doesn’t make the source of the problem go away. Injustice will exist, always, but the brave don’t look away. The truly brave don’t fear the dark.

And he taught me that I wasn’t alone.

I remember the relief I felt. I was depressed, and that was okay. I wasn’t “broken,” I didn’t need to “cheer up” or “get over it” or “focus on the positive.” I could rest, stop struggling all the time to live up to those impossible expectations, nurse my wounds and just let them heal. All those things other people demanded of me, that  was their wants, their needs, their desires, not mine. And I had no obligation to fill them.

Wraith taught me there is positive strength in pain, in sorrow, in being true to yourself and honoring your needs, even those most people would say are negative ones.

I named my first blog “Screaming in the Dark,” and that was what I did. I was young, there was an awful lot of whining done. But I said many true things as well, and I found a forum in which people would listen. And through all of them, I made my way out of the dark.

That time in my life is over, even if I feel the darkness swimming about my feet again, piranhas set on devouring me. I’m not yet certain the blog title still fits, and I am certainly fearful that I have no more wisdom or insight, but that my best years for both are behind me. I am pretty certain no one would listen, not this time, and I find myself blaming myself for my failures and cowering once again from the dark. It’s a scary damned place.

But for the moment, I’m trying it again, just to see if it’s right, just to see if it fits. Just to see where it goes. I’m walking down old roads in search of new paths, things I missed the first time around, and seeking to pick up strengths I once had but have since let fall behind me. And I am completely noncommittal. “We’ll see” is all the credence I give it.

But if I get really lucky, maybe I’ll find myself there once again.

And if I get really, really, really lucky, maybe I’ll find the ghost of a lost friend.

15 Things – Posting Challenge – Day 1

The official instructions are to post on Day 01- A recent picture of you and 15 interesting facts about yourself.

I warned you I’d fudge the pictures.

This is a picture of me from several years ago. Digging, of course. The blue dye in my hair had faded to a rather pleasant green, I am, as always, barefoot as possible, and I am on a mission. Aside from gaining weight, not much has changed.

I’ve done these “15 facts” things before, and I always seem to say the same things. So I’m going to try to stretch my wings on this one. Let’s see how I do.

1) I’m a Florida girl at heart. Not the soulless “Death’s Waiting Room” Florida has become, catering to the very expendable cash of people who realize they can’t take it with them, and who’s voting views look no further than the end of their ever shortening life spans. No, I’m a true Florida girl, one of the ones who can remember when Florida tourism advertised itself for the state’s natural beauty and not just tourist trap beaches and hotel pools. I am swamps and bugs, beach sand and sticker bushes, hurricanes and hundred degree weather, buzzards and eagles and hawks and ten types of cranes, I am antebellum trees with hanging moss, alligators and armadillos, bikinis and bare feet.

I am the living embodiment of the memory of the state, of the land, which is slowly dying as short sighted fools build in a place with no natural barriers to stop them. Florida was once not paved all up and down the coast to the point that the only way you knew you exited one city and entered the next was a sign telling you so. You didn’t find an air conditioner in every building, and old faces everywhere you looked. Florida has been consumed by people who exploit her worse than a five year old sex slave, and like that unfortunate child, they will use her until she dies. She is dying.

I secretly root for hurricanes with high property (not people) damage. I root for fires and floods, for the unsavory reputation of death to follow closely on the heels of her name. I want people to think twice before moving here. I want them to consider other warm places, Arizona, Texas, Alabama, or half the bloody South. I want those who only care about their next breathing day (young and old, mind), and who devoid the state of opportunity, of growth, of beauty, of any reason for youth to stay, of any help to the non-wealthy farmers and laborers who daily strive to make this a state worth living in to leave. I want them to find other homes and never return.

I want my state back.

2) I have very limited reading habits, which I’m told for a writer is suicide. I read sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and a (very) little bit of romance. I also read countless fun articles, news articles and blogs online, though I’m not sure how these officially classify.

I don’t so much read non-fiction as skim for what I need, and most straight fiction (aside from select humor) bores the crap out of me. I consider most suspense and westerns as “men’s fiction,” meaning they are fast in pace but often low in characterization. I also eventually quit reading mysteries for this reason–I was supposed to care about what was going on, but I didn’t. I feel obligated to struggle through classics, though I do admit a few of them are perennial favorites. Overall, though, the daily human experience holds little thrill for me–to me, I can look out a window and see it. It’s making the impossible seem real that turns me on, so that is what I read.

On the flip side, I do read voraciously.

3) I have a strange idea of beauty. I think lush green lands are very pretty, but…postcard pretty. Uninspiring. For beauty that shakes me to the core, give me miles and miles of miles and miles. The ocean’s vast emptiness, the unfolding desert, the middle of winter when the leaves are off the trees and you can finally see the land rolling away before you. I love skies that go on forever, rainstorms seen in the distance, sunsets and sunrises that brand the sky halfway into tomorrow. The beauty I seek doesn’t have to be harsh, but it should have grit.

Perfect beauty on people bothers me too. Give my a slightly asymmetrical face, a smile too wide or too crooked, some lines, crows feet, scars, a little bit of pudge. Dolls and statues are beautiful because in them we can create a human ideal. People are beautiful because of their flaws. Anyone without flaws is also without humanity, without the imprint life leaves on us all. They are pod people, and as such are to be avoided. And screw a media that says otherwise.

4) I have found the way to discourage people from reading things is to be verbose.  So if you want to publicize personal facts without having people actually read them, just talk a lot. (By the way, how you doing in this post so far?)

5) I’m double jointed to the point that sometimes things…spontaneously dislocate. I don’t know why, but my guess is I stretch the tendons or something just a little too far. Old age is gonna be fuuuuunnn…..

6) I like long hair on both men and woman, and I think the cultural push towards ever shorter hair is criminal. I will admit, there are people who look best in shorter hair, and even I prefer them that way, but I think it should be personal choice, not a cultural no-no. For both genders. I also think there is nothing unprofessional about well kept long hair on men or women, and that with all the other things we need to worry about, nitpicking someone for long locks is just plain petty.

7) I overcooked my toast and now it’s a briquette. Hey, it’s a thing….

8) I love writing, but I absolutely hate, hate, hate the process. This was something I held as a shameful secret for years. But then, much to my surprise, I discovered I was not the only one. Some people write shallowly, and you can tell. Others rip open hidden corners of their souls and struggle to get it on paper. How hard that struggle is, I think, depends on how good a grip you have on your inner demons and past nightmares, and as it turns out, a surprising number of people don’t have a grip that’s all that good.

To everyone who keeps on plugging away anyway, driven by muses with whips who chain you to a writing implement, I salute you. This should, in the end, be a “fun” thing, but I’m not sure it should ever be easy.

9) I want to have a pet skunk, a couple ferrets, breed Scottish Fold kittens, and own a greyhound, a Great Dane, and a small dog. My perfect household will be overrun with animals. And kids.

10) I once had a cockroach in my cleavage. No, I don’t feel like sharing that story today; I just told you to tease you.

11) I have a memory of something that happened before I was born. Not telling that story today either. Instead, I’ll just link it.



12) I’m a weirdness magnet. If something is going to go strange, I tend to be standing somewhere in the vicinity, if not at ground zero. Most of the time I’m just minding my own business when it happens, too.

Wait, you want examples? Don't ask for much, do you?

Well…two UFOs (not aliens, but flying objects with zero explanation behind them, I looked), an odd experience that I can only describe as a fairy encounter, several ghost-like encounters and one haunted house, shared dreams with an ex, and a few experiences to frightening to go into. Also, there was the time I got into an exclusive camp because I wrote on a wall (they weren’t mad and it wasn’t punishment, they were impressed), twice I was stranded on the road and helped (safely) by complete strangers, survived an accident that should have killed me, and a whole lot more. Seriously, my life makes no sense, and people who’ve lived with me can and will attest to this.

Thankfully, I have yet to make a door fall off a plane, though.

13) I like caves and underground spaces. I go into them even though I suffer a touch of claustrophobia and find them uncomfortable places to be. This may go back to that whole weird concept of beauty–I think they are marvelous. I also love exploring ruins for much the same reason.

14) I am a Southern eater to the core. Sweet tea, grits, fried catfish, greens, black-eyed peas, and all those other down-home foods are my nirvana. I have had fancy food, foreign food, and things so delicious they’ll make your toes curl, but offer me a choice between those things and cheese grits and the grits win every time. However, a good red curry is a fighting second place.

15) I did this for a year:



The falling down? I did lots of that, too.

It was how I got past a suicidal depression. Needless to say, I wasn’t much fun for my teammates, and I think they were happy to see me go. But it saved my life. I can’t do it again–too time intensive, it costs too much money, and then there’s the little matter of having blown out both my ankles–but I’m glad I did it. I wouldn’t take back the experience for the world.

Duty, DONE. Honestly, I’m not that interesting of a person, and some of my most interesting bits I don’t want to talk about right now anyway. Maybe I’ll revisit it next year and see if I have anything different to say.