“Well, what’s done is done, and the cracked egg can’t be cured.”

Howard Pyle, The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood

Who am I?

Well, once in a blue moon, there’s a little person born at Gate D18 in the Atlanta airport. These people smell like the orange scented cleaner that Mexican ladies use on your hotel room, they have broomstick straight hair shaped like a Nebraskan haystack, and their limbs are as thin as the napkins you get at a hospital cafeteria. Ask one to dance and they’ll pull out a half empty container of Iodized Salt and fling it in your mother’s eyes.

I am not one of those persons.

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