I am 41 years old, and share a house in the Pacific Northwest with my five feline overlords. I am an omnivore, and a city person. I am unspoused and unchilded by choice. I have a definite biological sex, but didn’t like either of the gender options on offer so I have invented my own (this confuses people, sometimes).
I like my Martinis dry and my wit dryer. I like my men skinny and my books fat. I take my coffee black, and in stupidly large quantities.
I do not believe there was ever a “simpler, more innocent time.”
The one great sadness of my life is that I have one of the worst singing voices known to humankind. I’m not a fan of opera, but I occasionally dream that I am onstage in a vast concert hall, singing some great aria before an enraptured audience. In those dreams, I have a great and powerful, yet exquisite, voice. When I sing, I can feel it in my whole body, and the physical sensation that accompanies singing is the most joyous, wonderful, intoxicating thing there is. Though I have very little in my life to feel sad about, I am always a bit verklempt when I wake up from this particular dream (but the first cup of coffee usually straightens me right out).
Everything else I have to tell you about myself is in my posts.
