age: 35 (Sep 05, 1977)
MEMBER SINCE: July 2010
occupation: I have been attending transfusions at the Brown Cancer Center for almost a year now, so my career plans have been put on hold. I was training to be a paralegal when this happened. I hope to return to it if I become well again.
heroes: Johnny Cash, Hunter S. Thompson, The Miz.
stats: 5'10, 180 lbs., red hair, blue eyes, crippled beyond repair.
sign: Raccoon in the sign of Ultra Magnus
crush: You have no idea how badly I want to see Christina Hendricks naked.
body mods: I have scars from multiple surgeries, if those count. I really want a Decepticon symbol tattoo pretty badly, though.
i lost my virginity: In Grayson County, KY. I broke my friend Chris' bed. He was mad at me because he hadn't got to fuck in it, yet.
fantasy: I used to have all kinds of obscene, filthy fantasies. Now I'd just be thrilled if someone would talk to dirty to me every once in a while.
gets me hot: Bravery. Friendliness. People who are passionate about something. Sorry, but I'm just not into shy, reserved folks at all. You only live once, younglings. Make the most of it.
most humbling moment: Being confined to a two block radius lest I collapse on the street from blood-loss problems tend to induce a tremendous amount of humility.
Many years ago when I was healthier, I worked as a cart-pusher at Wal-Mart for a few months. One of my co-workers was a fellow named Chad.
Chad was a pretty big guy, just over six feet tall but not fat, just stocky. He was a ginger, but it was hard to tell because he always had his head shaved and was clean shaven. I think he'd mentioned being in the marines once, but no one else verified this. He wore those kind of coke-bottle glasses that looked as if they could hold goldfish in them. This only made him a little more intimidating.
Chad talked a lot about blowing up Wal-Mart. He said he could do it with some supplies from Sam's Club, where he'd worked before getting transferred over here. He had it all planned out. He tried to recruit me for this endeavor, but although I hated my job I wasn't particularly inclined to set off explosives in the town shopping center.
Chad claimed to have the gift of knowing when people die. He swore he was never wrong about this.
I had to ask. You know I did.
We stopped over at the side of the store so Chad could 'prepare'. He closed his eyes, and focused for a moment, before slowly pushing his index finger towards my forehead until it touched the skin. He concentrated. He opened his eyes again. "You will live to be eighty-three," I laughed, and told him about my kidney disease. "Eighty-three," he repeated, looking me square in the eyes through those coke-bottle glasses.
Eighty-three. Huh.
A lot of people close to me know that I have this weird thing with numbers. I like both eight and three, so eighty-three seemed like a good age to kick it. That's long enough to get a real creative-type career going, but not enough that you get so sick you can't function anymore. At least in the normal folks.
Even when I was in the ER a year and a half ago, I kept thinking, "I can't possibly die yet, I'm not eighty-three."
I...
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thebeliever