I was brought into this world January 22, 1982 during what was perhaps one of the worst snow storms to ever hold Indiana County in its icy grasp, the only daughter of two average parents. After coming out relatively unscathed, I endured a turbid childhood where the highlights of my days were running shoeless through cornfields, wading knee-deep in creeks to catch water-dwelling creatures, tumbling head first down hills, and forming alliances with members of the male species, enjoying the perks when said boys were optically pleasing. It was early in my life that I came to the conclusion that I must have been dropped on my head several times as a child and this, in turn, filled my head with strange and unusual ideas which I live out in my every day life. I often find myself contemplating, with every fiber of my being, the many advantageous benefits of my insanity and manipulative brilliance. As soon as I was able, I escaped the depths of Indiana, Pennsylvania, the city that yearned so badly to be a state and held the FFA in very high regard, and transplanted myself in a much cleaner environment: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. There I prepared to take Gettysburg College by storm. Though, as it turns out (which is not usual with my tendency to fail at planning my life), I merely found myself in a place that harbored, rather than the FFA, the FAPA, Future Apple Pickers of America, which was in all aspects foreign and ultimately synonymous with the Mexican mafia. So then for 4 years, I pretended to be smart and studied a wide range of biological science and organic chemistry by day and enjoyed semi-erotic dreams of beautiful 18-year-olds, swash-buckling pirates, and Bruce Campbell (aka Brisco County Jr) by night. For fun, it was not unusual to find me tramping around acres of historic farmland-turned-battlefield sucking up American history and supernatural phenomenon like it was my job. As these four years drew to a close, I managed to convince the powers that be at Gettysburg College that I was, in fact, smart and worthy of this prestigious liberal arts degree for which I had to mortgage my first four unborn children to obtain. That's right. Four, at least. After said documentation was signed, I was allowed to graduate. However, again as my luck would have it, I cannot seem to find gainful employment. So now until I can find a job playing with dangerous, toxic, and carcinogenic chemicals, injecting intricate serums into unsuspecting laboratory mice, or developing the cure for general lack of personality, I shall spend my days casting cutting remarks at the unsuspecting population of whatever city I chose to inhabit and selling my body on street corners to support my expensive coke habit.
If you're wondering how I ended up in New Jersey, it really was by accident. Oops. This error will be rectified when I pack up my car and drive across the country to California.
Sometimes people tell me that I make them mean. I would generally tend to disagree with that. I am not a mean person. I love puppies. And sometimes babies. But I can be bitter and pretentious. And sometimes, when I'm with certain people my asshole-ness increases, not arithmetically, but rather exponential. I think those are the times that I make boys cry.
If you're a gay boy, chances are that I want to make out with you. So IM me and we'll set up a time.
