This entry is spawned from, as all the best works are, procrastination, and because Bee (alettertonoone) told me I should have one, to which I replied that I was enough of a confessional poet on fictionpress without divulging my life story here. She's probably laughing maniacally while reading this.

Now the existential question: who am I? On second thought, I think it's easier to tell you who I am not.

I am not an artist. I'm just someone who spends her time trying to capture life, which often moves too quickly, in a lens that she herself is perpetually trying to evade. And I started drawing faces this year in order to avoid doing homework (already, you can tell that I try to avoid a lot of things) and my sketchpad is like a memory-book of what and who I care about.

I don't call myself a poet, although I dream of being one. I'm just someone who dabbles with the dictionary on a daily basis, who strings her heart between the syllables of a stanza (and if you couldn't tell, I'm addicted to alliteration). Poems are the only places that I never lie; you could learn more about me from fifteen lines of verse than in this entire entry. So check out my fictionpress if you want to get to know me.

I don't believe in love, abab rhyme-schemes, politicians, or happy endings. I do believe in hormones, free-verse, the human potential, and coincidence.

I'm rarely to-the-point, and never completely sane. But no interesting person is, and I'd like to think I'm interesting. You can judge that for yourself, so thanks if you've read this entire rambling monologue.

I'll leave you with Voltaire: "The secret of being tiresome is to tell everything."