Forewarning: I am terrible at autobiographies. Like mind-blowingly awful. This will probably end up being about something else entirely. Now that you know that, I'll try to fill you in. I am eighteen, at least for a while, and I have brown hair and blueish grayish greenish eyes. (I am fantastic with specifics.) I am a forensic anthropologist in training, and when I'm not doing something related to that, you can usually find me collaging, hunting down new music, trying to convince my friends to let me take pictures of them, or designing and sometimes making clothes. I like wearing mens' dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up and clutching mugs of tea while I read. Some day I will probably live in an apartment somewhere with a bunch of globes and vintage armchairs and dance around and listen to TV on the Radio all day. Good smells make me happy. If there was a perfume that smelled like really nice hotel rooms I would wear it. I like collaging things (as in everything I can get my hands on), and I like trees in general. Photography makes me very, very happy, and I use a Canon Digital Rebel with various lenses. If I am left alone with lemon bars and or brownies, I can magically make them disappear quite easily because I am a wizard, obviously. I tend to narrate my life like a novel. If I get new shoes I run around outside until they get dirty because I don't like new shoes.

I am bad at writing the last sentences of things. Like this. May I suggest that you go get a cold lemonade because it will be far more satisfying than anything I could write here in conclusion.