I am me. I look after my own, and live in constant fear of not being there for them at the right moment. I am ludicrously liberal, and support pretty much everything, including abortion, gay rights and the right of any fool to tell us what he thinks. I also support my right to tell anyone to fuck right off. I love listening to music, and dislike long periods of silence. They make me claustrophobic and worried. I'm disorganised, can barely form coherent sentences and dress like a boy. Some how though, I seem to have collected some rather lovely people who claim to be quite attached to me, and not just for my rather natty collection of t-shirts with phallic references or almost complete set of Terry Pratchett books. I live with my Boy, a horsey girl and an occupational therapist, and we muddle along fairly well. I exist, I survive. I go to uni and skip or fall asleep in sixty per cent of my lectures. I work, (reluctantly) at the Deli counter in a yuppie supermarket on the other side of town. When I'm not doing this or that, I can be found hanging out with my flatmate's cats or my Boy in my flat in front of my computer, surrounded by cups, bottles and general mess. I like company and hate to be alone for a long time. It depresses me. People are the colour in the world, the spark that makes it all bearable. They help me through the bumps and rough patches, stop my mind from spiralling into the grey cloud that rolls over one. This is a way our lives touch. Briefly, no more than a butterfly kiss. I wonder who you are. Would I, could I like you, maybe even dare to love?
This is my invite to you, my cherished reader: Come visit the world I move through. Come play in my imagination and wallow in my thoughts. Come with me, through the twisted turning tumbling pathways with their silent sentinels of skeletal trees, to fly the fancy and dream of roses and juniper and marshmallow trees, or maybe of thorns and creeping vines and in the darkness something shifts and moves... A mere shadow? Hold tight my hand dear one, now don't let go. Together you and I go, minds open and legs closed. Who knows what terrific wonders we shall see? Don't let go my grasp my darling, as the trees whip our legs and the thorny creepers tug on our sleeves for our attention and don't, oh don't look over your shoulder. The past is for the dead, look forward my love look forward... Or surely you will be taken from my arms, a fainting will o' whisp, taken by the haunted imaginings of a ghost-filled mind, by the purple-smelling woods. So come with me, my most beloved, take my hand tight and don't look back. Together we can live this waking delirious dream.