i think it comes from somewhere up the river of doubt. i don't know what i am. i have some clues. i have a wife but judging from our relationship lately i haven't been a good husband which is really too bad because i've been here when things were going well and she's really a fun person. There are some kids who live here that call me 'dad' so i'm pretty sure i'm a father. One is taking a nap and has a job at McGargleds and the other is in a Mario World induced coma, so i must not be a very inspiring one. i work as a carpenter but the thought of being a carpenter makes me want to weep. In fact, my stomach does this Bill-Murray-Groundhog-suicide thing from just writing the word 'carpenter.' Nng, there it goes again. They say you are what you do. If that's true than i am a Nauseator. Which sounds like one of Doofenshmirtz Evil Inc.'s creations. Greetings Perry the Platypus.
If, by some small chance, i am what i want to do, then i am a creator. Small "c." i love art. i love making things. i love crafting words, lines, notes and small plastic bricks into something they weren't before. i love telling stories.
And so i forget my stomach. i fight off the drowzies. i let my eldest sleep and my youngest bounce turtle shells into various cute little opponents. i listen to the snow melt. i watch, only mildly interested as the men in the driveway in the biohazard suits decide a frontal assault is too dangerous and call in an airstrike. i let another rendition of Little Saint Nick play and i write.
Maybe that's it. Maybe i'm a Hoper.
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