Call me Ishmael.

No, that's been done before. I need something new, something exciting, something...original... Aha! I've got it!

Call me Edmund Fitzgerald.

Wait. Something about that name rings a bell... and anyhow, it's far too masculine.

Call me Mary Todd. Yes. Mary Todd Lincoln. Wife of the Great Emancipator Himsel-

But wasn't she, uh, a few eggs shy of an omelet? Damn, that'll never do..

Ah, yes. I've got it now. Call me Hillary.

Whoa. Good God, no!

Call me Oprah.

Hmmm...no...

Call me Madonna.
Call me Martha S.
Call me Cleopatra.

Call me... Call me....

Aw, hell. What's in a name anyhow?

Besides, it's my story that's drawn you to this place, isn't it? Of course it is.

Call me what you will. My tale is as follows...
******************************************************
I am silent. I am not mute.

I wasn't always this way. Oh no, like you, I was once quite the chatter box. After years of mistreatment, however, I adapted. I evolved.

But I digress. That's a story that is best left for another day.

Where was I? Oh yes. Personal characteristics

I'm tall, for a girl. I hate it. Guys are intimidated by my size. Pants don't fit. Each time I visit the supermarket, I'm held at gunpoint by notorious gangs of elderly women wanting clearance items from top shelves. Fun, fun.

I'm a Bio major, and I hope to go into some sort of research after I finish school.
When I graduate, I'm going to get a lab coat with my name embroidered above the breast pocket in a fancy font. I plan to wear this token of authority each time I visit the dentist.

hmm, what else...

Ah, yes. I was kicked in the head by a horse. Twice. But not by the same horse. Somehow, I survived both incidents, although I still suffer from "episodes" in which I believe I am the ghost of Elvis and that I have been sent down from heaven to eliminate AIDS by abolishing the letters 'a', 'i', 'd', and 's' from the english language.

Shiny objects attract me. Gold, mostly, and silver. Sometimes tin foil, when the light shines on it just right.

I can't dance. Not even to save my life. I tried once. Someone thought I was choking violently and attempted the Heimlich. I haven't busted a move since.

Alright, alright, I'll admit it. I tend to exaggerate a bit. I like to stretch the truth. But don't be confused. I am all of the above.

I am the exaggeration. I am the sarcasm. I am the crazyily-worded, choppy ideas. My writing is the true me, the me that stays hidden from the public, the me that I've repressed for all of those undiscussable reasons.

I am not mute.

I am only silent.















 

Here I sit, chewing idly at my thumbnail, pondering life's greatest conundrum.

Which are scarier, clowns, or the Keebler Elves?

There are so many similarties, so many overlaps, that I just can't solve the mystery.

Take the clowns, for instance. The combination of oversized shoes, funky hair, and that horrid smile have caused many a youngster to suffer an involuntary evacuation of the bowels. And I don't even dare to bring that damn car into question.
Freaky, right?
Sure.

But then there are the elves. Those little tree-hugging, fudge-making, Satin worshiping midgets aren't any better than their larger counterparts. And at least clowns can make bitchin' balloon animals. What can the elves do? Huh? HUH?

They put the "fudge" in Fudge shop. Now there's an accomplishment.