Bios are boring. Allow me to prove it:
I write stories for print and radio, ideally for money. I also write screenplays that people in Hollywood say very nice things about and then never buy.
I spent the first thirty years of my life in Texas. Americans always say they can’t tell, because I don’t have an accent. Europeans always say they could tell immediately, because I sound like a hick.
On a related note, I recently learned that I am laughably incapable of articulating “ng” sounds at the end of certain words. For instance, “long” comes out “lawn.” I’ve also learned that my involuntary response to at least half the questions I’m asked is, “Do what now?” Even when no one has asked me to *do* anything.
I was born with a cleft lip. The scar from my corrective surgery was always a source of ridicule when I was a kid. Now, for whatever reason, some people find it attractive. For that, I credit Joaquin Phoenix. Someone told me he doesn’t actually have a cleft lip, but it sure looks like he does. He also played Johnny Cash in a movie once, which meant Johnny Cash also appeared to have a cleft lip. And that is cool.
I stopped eating meat in 1995 and started again in 2008, though I haven’t told my family and probably won’t, because they find vegetarianism endlessly fascinating, and if they knew I no longer practiced it, we might not have anything to talk about.
I’ve never believed in napping. I’ve always believed in sleeping, but I’ve also been an insomniac for as long as I can remember. Lately I’ve started to wonder if insomnia is sleep’s way of punishing me for my stance on naps.
I greet every dog that approaches me with “Hi, funny,” because I think they are funny.
I have a stomach that never stops grumbling. And feet I will never let you look at. Ever.