Narcissistic, self-absorbed, shallow, cocky, self-destructive…

I am (or like to believe that I am) a writer, a slave to the written word, living by every word I write and loving by every thought I drool over.

Outside my rigorous (or not) schooling and outside the rows of semi-perfectly aligned desks and clicking pens, I have some semblance of a life. Sometimes it is tortured, and you can definitely read all about that here, but on occasion, light shines through cracks in porcelain skin and wiggles its way through my literally broken heart (I have a valve that doesn’t work quite right) and makes my world drip with golden sunny haze. When that happens, and maybe more so when I feel tortured,┬ámagic spills out of mouth and hands and onto paper and into type, dancing in my brain and in front of my eyes. But that’s rare, so don’t count on it.