the one and only

I was born an only child. My brother would disagree with this, but, for all intents and purposes... let's just go with it. 

'Only children' have a certain stigma surrounding them. We're bossy, obnoxious, perfectionists, thoroughly disagreeable when things aren't going our way, selfish... the list goes on and on. They've done studies on this 'only child' syndrome. Supposedly we have trouble in social situations and have a tendency to mature faster... Awkward and precocious? Me? Never.

While growing up I was entirely aware that I was all by myself. My dad had two brothers, my mom had a sister and two brothers... even my brother had two brothers! I had two dogs, and they would always steal my hats.

Once I was old enough to be in school and have actual human companions, I quickly noticed all my friends had siblings... which was something I'd never really experienced. Dinner time at their houses was practically like a party! There were so many people gathered around the table! And all of them had to sit, and eat, silently, while they listened to me prater on incessantly... about myself.

When friends would come to my house, I'd always come up with some 'fun' little game for us to play. Usually we'd pretend to be the Spice Girls, or duct tape nickels to railroad tracks. One time we hurled ourselves face first down a sandy hill near the freeway, and for weeks afterward my dad called me Scarface. *Yes, I played near railroad tracks and freeways, unattended. My parents were busy raising their other children... oh, wait...

We did anything, pretty much... anything that I wanted to do, that is. I was the boss. They came to my crib, they played by my rules. I visited their humble abode, they also played by my rules, because uh, hello?... I was the guest.

It wasn't until middle school that I started to clue into the fact that being 'bossy' was not a good thing. I figured out that my friends and relatives did not like being told what to do, especially by me. All of a sudden I didn't want to be the one in charge anymore. I didn't want to be the one freaking out every time someone decided to not conform to my will- I wanted to be calm, cool and collected... three things that I've never been and even to my best efforts will probably never, ever be...

Mostly I didn't want to be an only child anymore, and when my parents wouldn't help me out in that area, I decided to take matters into my own hands. After a few years practice, my calm, cool, collected projections turned me into a different, indifferent person. I allowed people to borrow things, and pretended that I didn't care when they gave them back or in what condition they returned in- "You want to borrow some DVD's? Sure, here, go ahead. Take them. Take them all. Here, why don't you have my left arm, too. And my heart. TAKE IT, YOU SAVAGE."

When asked where I wanted to go to dinner, I'd usually shrug and say, "Oh I don't care, wherever." But I did care. "Liz, you want to go to Maggie Moos with us?" Sure, I'd say, silently screaming. I hated that fucking place, and I'm glad it's out of business... All those creepy cow drawings and bright colors... And the ice cream tasted like butter. Ugh.

Anyway. I tried to be an always-agreeable person. I'd go wherever, do whatever (within reason...) and I'd shrug it off. One time, at a RHS/KaHS soccer game, I clearly remember getting laid out on the field by a certain friend of mine. There I was, with an astronomically blue comforter wrapped around me, toddling toward the exit, when someone (DAN) tackled me. To the ground. I saw stars... but that could have been because of my blanket. Bossy Elizabeth would have popped back up, screaming at anyone who was within hearing distance. The new Elizabeth, the cool, non-only child one, laughed it off. To be honest it probably was kind of funny.

It wasn't long before my supposed coolness turned into actual apathy and laziness. By the time college rolled around, I honestly didn't care about most things. Sure, there were a few instances that sent me into a flying rage, like when Jevon and Jurass broke my couch... bitches. Or when I put myself in charge of directing, editing and writing an Office-like version of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Turning a hodge-podge crew of English major awkwardos into veritable thespians? Not an easy task, my friends. But I did it. And I only made them re-shoot their scenes like 7 times.

Directing and property damage aside, I was noncommittal and uncaring about all aspects of life. If my friends wanted to hang out, they could call me. If I didn't return their voicemails and texts, they should probably come over. If I didn't answer the door, they could try knocking on the window. Or just give up because obviously I didn't like them enough to acknowledge their existence...

If my professors wanted me in class, they needed to explicitly say so... as in, "Elizabeth, you need to be in class on Wednesday." Then they would need to point at me, so I knew I was the Elizabeth they were referring to. And sending an email never hurt anybody...

It was about a year ago when I started to notice that nonchalant-ness was becoming a problem. Really it was the culmination of a lot of little things, but, there was one issue that was a bit more pressing than others. I was allowing people to call me by a name other than my own.

And no, I'm not talking about Booze, the-nickname-that-won't-die.

It all started as, "Hey, Grace, how are you today?" Grace is not my name. Not even close. I smiled and answered that I was doing well, thanks, how are you?... but inside I was trying to figure out how to clue him in that my name was, in fact, Liz.

This happens to me more than I'd like to admit, but usually it's over the phone and probably stems from my apparent speech impediment that occurs when I'm stating my given name. It's always, "Oh, hi Lynn." or "Hey, Lisa." or my favorite, "Lid? L-I-D?" I've briefly flirted with the idea of returning to Elizabeth... but it's just so cumbersome... and common.

This 'Grace' mishap was different. It was not a mispronunciation. He, a frequent customer at my place of employment, thought Grace was really my name. There are numerous instances that could have planted this Grace seed in his head, but every time I was confronted with it, I was unable to correct him.

My apathy had morphed into something I can only assume was a shy, cloying meekness that was to such a point that I was letting people's mistakes stay unnoticed and uncorrected. 

They'd use improper grammar, ("They was just looking at me, like I was stupefied.") and I'd bite my tongue and look the other way. They'd make obscure incorrect pop-culture references, ("You know, Tom Cruise, from Forrest Gump?!") and I'd nod along as if they were right... which they were so not. My neurotic, real-self was dying on the inside... but I would not allow my casual facade to show the cracks of know-it-all-ness. I was unflappable. Unfazed. I could let people be stupid... even if it killed me.

They'd make assumptions about me, and I'd just nod, instead of steering them into a truthful direction. Like one time before P.E. when a boy looked at me and said, "Who'd you borrow that sweatshirt from?" and I looked down at my sweatshirt, and said, "Huh?" He then pulled at the sleeve, which was hiding my hands because it was too long, and said, "It's too big, whose is it?"

I shrugged, thinking it was an utterly strange question. Then I answered with something that I'm still trying to wrap my head around. I opened my mouth, falsities tumbling out: "Oh, yeah, it was my older brother's."

It was not. I lied, to further perpetuate my normalcy and the notion that maybe in some alternate universe I could have a brother that I stole Kamiakin sweatshirts from...

My best friends might laugh at this, as I never fail to correct them... but this is for their own good. It's how I show my love for them. It's not like I can let them go around, speaking erroneously and sounding idiotic. What would that make me, their peer... their equal... if they- for example, asked, "What, exactly, is a teriyaki? No, I know it's a sauce, but, is it a bird? Kind of like a chicken?"  There are some things that even I, a really calm, blasé person, can't let slide.
 

"Grace! How are you?"... Oh, I'm fine, I said, not returning the question. It got to the point where I was kind of rude because I didn't want to give him another opportunity to call me by the wrong name. After this particular exchange my boss looked at me strangely, "Does Larry think your name is Grace?"

"Yes," I said.

"Why don't you correct him?"

I shrugged. "It's been going on like, three months. I feel I'm past the point where I can go, 'Oh, no, actually my name is Liz.'... Grace isn't a bad name. I could be named Grace. And it's not like he's calling me Gladys." I shrugged again, which is my favorite thing to do. "I thought about wearing a name tag... but, we don't wear those, so it would be weird."

The next day Larry called me Liz, and I can only imagine why.

For the most part I've returned to my unsavory, only-child ways, but that doesn't mean my years pretending to be laid-back were all in vain. When I first started at the winery, one of my coworkers asked me about my brothers and sisters. "I don't have any," I shrugged (see? I love shrugging). She looked at me, shocked. "You don't seem like an only child," she said, "my daughter's one, too. I hope she ends up like that."

I smiled, and nodded. VINDICATED!

PS- That teriyaki thing totally happened. 

oh, dear me...

I was shuffling through my iPod the other day when Brad Paisley's Letter to Me came on. I thought to myself, "Why the hell did I ever download this song?" and quickly pushed 'next', only for Baz Luhrman's Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen) to blast into the air around me.

I glanced about, hoping that no one would overhear my awful picks. You see, I tend to listen to my music very loud, ergo anyone within a 30 foot radius can usually decipher the lyrics flowing through my earbuds. I judge people quite harshly by their musical choices, for instance, right now I'm sitting in a parking lot, penning this to the soulful rhythm of Purple Rain. Who in their right mind would diss Purple Rain? ... What, no love for Prince? Hark, what blasphemy! It's a fantastic song, and you know it... But I digress. The fact that I followed a so-so country jam with an even stranger non-song was unforgivable. What next, Nickelback? Hah, just kidding. I'd shoot myself. Seriously.

Anyways, for some reason I kept listening to the Sunscreen song. I've always liked the one line: "Don't worry about the future ... ... The real troubles in your life are apt to be the things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindsides you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday." Kind of morbid, I'll admit, but I love the imagery. I can see myself sitting in my car on an idle Tuesday, the clock striking 4 as a semi careens my way... and suddenly I'm HIT!!#@*&$... with the realization that I should probably be at work, or something.

It didn't take but a moment to understand how serendipitous it was that these two songs played back-to-back. Obviously, Jesus (or Steve Jobs, whatevs) wanted me to blog a little old 'letter to me'.

I decided to write this letter to a 5 year old me, because not only was I a gifted reader with one hell of a vocabulary at that age, but also, I'm pretty sure age 5 is right when I started to fuck everything up. So here we go...


Dear Liz,

First of all, your name is Elizabeth. I know, it's long, and your hasty 8 year old self will want to shorten it to something that can be scribbled in an instant... but you will rue the day (rue, I tell you!) that you choose to go by 'Liz'. It's obnoxious, and too short and it's a bit onomatopoeia-ish. And to be honest, everyone's going to call you Booze, anyway. It's a long story. I'll explain later.

Speaking of days you will 'rue', one blissful 5th grade afternoon, you'll be accosted by a boy named Jevon. He'll be the one throwing water at you. You'll forgive him this, almost immediately- because you'll think him kind of cute. This is all an act- a trick of the light, I say! RUN. Run away from him, and never look back. If you don't cut him out of your life right then and there, he'll torture you for long as you both shall live...

Just to further illustrate how imperative it is to your sanity that you avoid and ignore him, let us take a stroll down memory lane... At age 16, after you see the Texas Chainsaw Massacre with all of your friends, you'll go home, so glad that you're not one of those silly girls who gets scared by silly movies. Cue Jevon, who will be waiting outside your bedroom window, revving a circular saw. He's also the one who dresses as a clown not once, but twice, all for your 'benefit'. You're afraid of clowns, but, by now, you already know this. His shenanigans will only cement your stance. Senior year he'll tell your government teacher that you have a knife in your backpack, which by then will be quite an offense... but you'll be granted clemency due to the fact that his only proof was an AIM account he purported as yours with the moniker 'knifeinmypack', and a hand-drawn picture of a cleaver that he stuffed in your bag. Once you've enrolled at WSU, he'll already have told all his friends (he has, surprisingly, many) that you're a heroin addict (you are not) who's had 9 abortions (of which you've had none)... And one time, he'll push you and you'll trip and go flying into a wall, bounce off a fire extinguisher and land on your ass. He'll laugh at this.

Speaking of which, you're unbalanced. Not in like, a schizo way, but more in the way that you fall down a lot. Realize this, and move on. Don't go rollerblading, snowboarding, skateboarding, or walking down B Street. This will save you a dislocated shoulder, bruised hip, bruised ego, the knees of two different pairs of jeans, a pair of aviator sunglasses, your left ankle and your sanity.

Regardless of your vigilance, you will never use the words 'supper' or 'soda' in normal conversation, and you aren't really ambidextrous. Why must you try to be so strange? The oboe? Really?! Get over yourself, kid. You're going to be weird enough without going out of your way to do so. Also, you pronounce 'crayon' wrong. Seriously. It's not 'cran'- it's 'cray-on'. People will make fun of you for this. And while I'm clearing up some egregious errors in your thought processes and pronunciations, I might as well mention these: islands are not floating pieces of land, hearts aren't shaped like hearts, and the lyrics are, "Don't go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you used to", not, "Don't go Jason waterfalls, blistex to the rivers and the lakes that you used to"...

Enough with the overalls. After age two, they cease to be precious and turn into pathetic.

Sometime in early grade school (between 1st and 2nd grade, to be sort-of exact), a freckle will appear on your lip. It's not pen, regardless of how many misguided, nosy strangers (and Grandma!) try to tell you to wipe it off your face. Even after you assure them that it's not pen, that it's permanent, they'll still stare at you, an air of doubt in their gaze... Get used to this. It happens once a week.

Lots of girls are impetuous, unreasonable and a bit creepy- and you are one of them even though you consider yourself to be sooooo balanced and normal and cool. You're not. Sorry.

Try to write a book about vampires that's actually good before 2005- because after that they become sparkly, thus making the entire genre worthless. Also, invest in Apple or something. Oh, and Y2K? Total BS. I'll let you know about this 2012 nonsense... or maybe I won't :/

Really, little Elizabeth... how many Beanie Babies does one actually need?

There will be a time in your adolescence that you decide to throw a party at your parent's house. FYI, someone leaves a Smirnoff Ice in the microwave... Your friends are cool. And just so you know... your friend Nick's going to tell your cousin Chris about the party, who's going to tell your aunt Elinor who's going to tell your mom. You don't get into trouble though, so chill out. Have a drink, or eight... you were a real bitch that night.

On that same note... you keep thinking vodka is your friend. IT DOES NOT LIKE YOU.

Relax about the little things, because chances are, they don't really matter anyway. Pay attention in class, and quit scribbling all over your notebooks, you're wasting paper. Be nicer to people because as the years go by you'll feel bad that you weren't.

Unfortunate things will happen. People will disappoint you. And you're going to disappoint yourself, more times than I'd like to admit- but that's kind of what life's about. You try things out, you make mistakes, you (hopefully) learn from them, and you get up and do it all over again. Sooner or later you'll come to the realization that the past is the past, the future may or may not be completely fucked- but life goes on. Just live. Just breathe. Have fun and be sincere and most of all, be present. From what I can tell you'll have good days and bad, but they're two sides of the same coin, you can't have one without the other. And maybe the odds are stacked in your favor, because so far, life's been pretty damn good.

Just do your best, so you can look back with no regrets, proud of what you've accomplished and without all those obnoxious, nagging, "what if" scenarios.

You've got one shot at this.

Be good.

Sincerely,

Booze

goodies.

So sorry to disappoint, Jevon, but this isn't that kind of blog entry...

Me. Age one. Ted Kaczynski ain't got nothin' on me, bitch.

I found a cardboard box yesterday in the breezeway of my parents house. I don't really know what a breezeway is, other than a way to connect the main house to the garage... most people use a thing called a 'door' for this, but due to poor planning, or other unfortunate incidences I'm unaware of, we utilize a little room, with four doors... One to the front yard (a collective, wtf, is in order), one to the back patio, one to the garage and one to the kitchen. All this trouble to get from the house to the garage. A garage that's a paint studio, with fans and florescents, no less.

Anyways. I found this box, which at first sight, seemed to be filled with a hodge podge of middle school and high school memorabilia. Books (of the Harry Potter variety), movies (Disney, of course), the Beatles anthology (which is now in my car), a secret notebook, notes written on God-ish stationary and much, much more were scattered about. And I was delighted.

It was a veritable treasure chest of memories. So, naturally, with you I'm going to share. Enjoy.

Well, here I am. I don't know how old I was in this particular photo- but judging by the sheen on my nearly-bald head, I'd say I'm around 9 or 10 months. Found this little gem of a picture taped onto a collage I no doubt made in honor of, well, me. Who else would I make a collage of?

The reason this photo speaks to me, is that it illustrates just how great my parents were- always letting me explore, allowing me to follow my artistic impulses and creative drive no matter where it took me...

What, you see a child eating dirt while her parents watch gleefully from behind a Nikon lens? Pshaw. I see an intrepid explorer, diving head first into what could be... grabbing for herself the very essence of life and then, eating it. Like candy. A really minerally, dirty, infested with SO MANY FUCKING GERMS kind of candy. A candy, like the kind that comes from a skeezy fellow dwelling in a windowless van. The kind that most parents steer their children from, rather than saying, "Here, Elizabeth, eat this dirt, we're out of Gerber at the moment. Now, spit out the roly poly, that's just icky."***

***(Author's note, when I showed my Mom this entry, she said, and I quote, "Oh for God's sake Elizabeth Moss, get over it. It was Badger Canyon dirt. Sacred.")

I played many an instrument in my youth. Violin, oboe... the latter of which forced my mom to encourage me not to practice. "You sound great, Elizabeth, but you're done practicing now. YOU'RE DONE." I probably sounded like a cross between a dying duck and evil.

Why in the sixth grade, when faced with a hoard of flutes, clarinets, trumpets and trombones I chose the oboe, I'll never know. It was between that and the french horn, both of which my music teacher told me I could get a scholarship with, to which I said, "Will they give me a scholarship for just having the ability to play... or will they expect me to be in band or something?"

I also have a piano and a guitar, and while when I bought them I had delusions of grandeur about my actual abilities at playing them, I still like to dabble every now and then. Pretty much, chopsticks is my bitch.

But how could I ever forget my short run in the ORFF Ensemble at Ridge View Elementary?

I think I played the glockenspiel, mostly because of the way it just rolls off the tongue. It's a glock, and a scpiel. What more could one want? We played one song, and one song only. I have no idea what it was called, but it was a three-part harmony, and had I some mallets and Jevon and Megan (who I'm sure still remember it as well), I'd dazzle you with my skills.

Sweet misspelling, too, eh? I've always been a gifted grammarian...

My OM hat. Odyssey of the Mind, which I believe I prefaced in my last blog entry, was a big part of my youth. While other kids were out playing soccer and gaining important skills in teamwork and... running, or something, I was inside, gluing my fingers together with industrial strength adhesive. Awesome.

What little girl doesn't love Barbies? Why is this doll so pristine, still wrapped in her cardboard and plastic? Oh. Wait. This monstrosity of a doll is NOT a Barbie, ergo why it was marked down to $1.89. WTF is a Pom Pom Pal? I think the makers of this doll, not wanting to encroach upon Mattel's turf, figured, "oh, fuck it, let's put a pom pom on her head and throw in a cassette for good measure. It's a doll, and we can put right on the box, 'Be A Cheerleader'!? What's not to love? Girls will fawn all over it. They're dumb and they love pink... Score." Maybe some girls... but not this one.

I'm nothing if not a brand whore.

It's like she's Barbie's peppy Alopecia-stricken cousin. Creepy as hell.

This VHS was the hardest thing to stumble upon. Was I, Elizabeth Christine Moss, ever so lame as to record the Grammys? Also, what's with the apostrophe?


Popping it into the VCR (yes, I have one of those), I was suddenly totally grossed out by the thought that "The Grammy's" might be something one would name a tape that they never intended for public viewing...

Choking back vomit, I breathed a sigh of relief as the screen cleared. It was D3: The Mighty Ducks.

Shit I loved Banksy. The hockey playing one, not the graffiti-ish one. And Benny 'the Jet' Rodriguez, though I'm pretty sure his name was Luis in the Duck world. But mostly I loved Banksy. Ah.....





Speaking of the lost art form of videotape...

The Little Mermaid VHS, a classic. CLASSIC! Especially with a penis on the cover. Fine family fun!

I was always a writer. My first line of prose, thought up when I was walking toward Young Street during my tenor as a crosswalk attendant in the fifth grade, went something like this, "The cold, bitter wind blew through her windbreaker, biting at her skin." I thought to myself, hey, I could be a writer.

And I know, the line was brilliant, no need to shower me with praise.

While this particular notebook was barred from prying eyes, as you can see by the "Touch & Die" inscription on the cover, it held nothing short of nothingness. Seriously. It had a few lists of songs I wanted to download, mostly Britney Spears, Hilary Duff, Simple Plan and host of other music I'm sad to say I liked.

Also in it, was a chart of different emoticons and their meaning. I actually wrote out,

" :) = smiley "

I was ridiculously cool.





Lastly, tucked away in the far recesses of the box, was another box. A Godly box, filled with notes and folders and 'affirmations' from my days with Jesus, AKA most Sundays throughout high school, as I spent the majority of them sitting sleepily at the COJ.


We must have had a tradition at church camps to write out what we liked about one another, as I found many a note that said, "You're so cool," or, "You're so nice." Obviously they didn't know me at all...

But I remember this note in particular. I don't know who it was from, but it gave me a laugh. It still does. "I hear that you are funny." Haha. Ha..... I've heard that, too.

We (Kaylee, Bonnie and I) didn't take church too seriously. Obviously. Jesus, or St. Peter, or whomever, will probably laugh at us when we reach the pearly gates...

In the pews we'd 'Bible Pick', thumbing through the Book and randomly plunking our fingers down to highlight a particularly strange passage. We tried to skip service by hiding in the playhouse in the sanctuary, and sometimes we just left and went to IHOP. But as you can see, in Kaylee's handwriting, we did praise the Lord... "LOL!".


Ah, memories.

(image courtesy of Bonnie's bedazzled 'affirmations'. Seriously, Bonnie? Glitter for Jesus?)

And for now, I'm going to return to my VHS copy of D3. BANKSY!

okaybyeeee.

bang it!

I think I'm bitter. You've probably considered this as well, as most of my blog entries consist of constant (yet totally delightful) bitching about everything from drunkenness to Baconnaise. And being white. Ugh.

To know me in real life--- which I'm sure all of you do, or else why would you be reading this?--- is to hopefully know that I'm not the belittling shrew my words make me out to be. Well, I am... a little bit, I guess. In order to write these things, one would assume I must also think them, at least on some level...

But in real real life, I'm optimistic to a practically delusional state. I'm just a glass half full kind of gal. I assume the best in people, regardless of past precedent, even if they've disappointed me time and time again. I'm pretty sure that somewhere along the line, I'm going to win the lottery. I believe in karma and fate, and I like to think that there's a reason for our existence.

I am sarcastic, I'll admit that, and maybe I seem like a cynic... but I always hold out hope. I don't know why. Things go wrong, bad things happen- but there's a lot of good out there, too. There's beauty, and greatness, and plastic bags dancing in the wind.

Case in point- I love Disney movies... See? Happy. Sure, they usually kill off some lady character in the beginning, but hey- such is life. You roll with the punches. You might lose your wife after she's hatched all your kids, and your one remaining kid might be a bit of a cripple, but then you meet Dori, and visit 42 Wallaby Way, and life is swell again- as it should be.

I like happy. That being said, I seem to, especially in print, venture to the dark side more often than not. I've thought long and hard about why this is, and keeping in mind the whiteness I mentioned last time, I can think of only one other disappointment in life that my disdainful attitude stems from.

It's because I could never have proper bangs.

You read it right. This dark side of me, the angry, bitter one... she was fueled by lifeless, insipid hair.

You see, I have two cowlicks, these little swirly bits at the front of my hairline, that keep me from having a trendy coif.

Bangs that lie flat against the forehead? Never gonna happen. My cowlicks spin my hair so that a nice layer of fringe above my eyes will never be achieved. Ridiculously awesome puffy bangs circa Brittany Jones in the nineties? Nope. I would've killed for those bangs in sixth grade, but it just wasn't in the stars. I've tried blow dryers, curling irons, and so much hairspray that I was a fire hazard- to no avail.

Bangs and I will never live in harmony. It's something that I've come to accept, I think. I still make an attempt every once in a while, and sometimes they border on decent, but mostly, I look like a bang-loving, cowlick-having fool.

I've found myself discouraging my able haired friends from wearing bangs. I tell them, "They're just not in style." or, "I just like it so much better when you do the side-swept thing, it's way cuter. I've heard people say it about you. No bangs. Don't do the bangs. They're icky." I couldn't actually care less about my friend's hairstyles, I like them for their money, not their looks. But the jealousy bubbles every time I see someone shake the hair out of their eye-line.

Bitches.

Banglessness is just one more thing I have to come to terms with in order to be all the way happy... and haven't. The list is actually getting quite long...

-I can't have bangs.
-I'm too white.
-I can't ride a bike with no-hands.
-Tomatoes make me gag, regardless of how good they look, or how much I think I could like them.
-I'm pretty sure I'm going to die at age 27.
-I'm a bit clumsy, what with the falling out of beds and tripping over air.
-In addition to lacking bangs, I keep finding gray hairs. I just turned 23 last month. I hit puberty like, yesterday, and I'm already on the decline.
-I'm easily distracted, like today, when I saw said gray hair in the mirror and almost ran off the road (nearly taking a Toyota Tundra with me).
-Oh, also, I am not a competent driver.
-When I write, I make a lot of gestures and movements, and facial expressions. As in, I look like I'm fighting with the air- and it's winning.
-Anderson Cooper is gay, and will never love me. More on that later.
-I blush easily. When I'm embarrassed, or hot, or angry, or sad, or laughing, or... anything. It's probably some super sketchy disorder. It's probably what I'm going to die from, at age 27.
-I like my shows more than most of my friends... So anti-social...
-I think I have a bit of a lisp.

I'm sure there are more, but I'm growing weary.

I guess I'll part with one final thing I must come to terms with. I'm hopelessly in love with a craft that might never pay off. But I guess I duped you into reading this- so that's a start :)