We will start with the assumption that I am not crazy.

If I am, it won't matter one way or the other.

10 January 1979
I go to a state university in a town somewhere north of the 13th most populous city in the world.
I have delusions of being a fabulous forensic anthropology professor someday.
I live on the bleak, distant outskirts of nowhere with three felines, varying numbers of rats, three dogs, a horse, some goats and chickens, a housemate, and several dirty clothes piles that have gained intelligence.
I prefer autumn to winter, spring to summer, summer to winter, and spring to autumn.
I was taught that you shouldn't start more than two sentences in a row with "I."
I'm not particularly worried about it.

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Pointe: masochism, raised to an art form.

butterfly is love
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"my" good films, a holistic forensic anthropology, american sign language, applied-anthropology as a superfield, bagpipe music, ballet, bo staff, bovril, camping, carefully pondering my morals, charles dickens, crazy socks, cultural anthropology, dancing at odd times, deaf culture, deliciously trashy books, drawing on the walls, drunkenly arguing philosophy, emergency medical sirens, expensive jewelry, fair trade loose-leaf tea, footie pajamas, four-field anthropology, frida kahlo's life, fuzzy socks, going to scotland, growing a poppy garden, happy existentialism, healthy doses of skepticism, hearing people's life stories, highland dance, intelligent-but-unaware-of-it people, japanese culture, jazz, loud make-up, martial arts for peace, mexico, modern dance, muscles, painting like a five-year-old, people who are disabled, photographing moments, reading everything in sight, rhythm and blues, roman catholic ritual, sharing stories, singing alto not soprano, speaking other languages, swimming like a competitor, tap dancing on everything, thigh-high leg warmers, toddling around nyc wondrously, toed socks, unique tattoos, upbeat latin music, volunteering, what are universal rights?, willa cather, william somerset maugham, writing with poignancy