My name is Marty, and I am not writing this. I live in the forest, or maybe I don�t. Several millennia ago, I crawled out of the swamp to find a world in which I could not live. There were no cacti in sight, and certainly no noun/verb metaphors. Far too many times have I been disappointed in the disappearance of disaster. Fast forward to present day: rocket ships, jumbo jaws, and wolves. Michele. Always Michele. My heritage consists of an oily rag on a rocking chair and a cardboard Edward. Maybe someday you can touch me. Only maybe though. That�s all I have to offer. What do you want from me?
