It started back in the day.
Back in the day when there were no clouds to block the sun. Back in the day when vinyl was so new that people were no more worried about its long lasting carcinogenic effects than they were about smoking tobacco. Back in the day when you could paint a town red and it didn't mean zombies.
That's when I started to dream.
I dreamed of doves hurling majestically through the air from the arms of magicians hoping that they hadn't suffocated in their long, ebony cloaks damp with sweat and grime. I dreamed of horses charging through the desert hoping to find a source of water before their camel brethren caught up to them and sneered at their lack of biological survival skills.
And I dreamed of music.
My bedroom was nothing more than long sheet of fabric I had stolen from my mother's bed. Knowing what I know now, I would have questioned the wisdom of such a move, but that is another story. I had no walls save for that sheet which protected my privacy... like water protects you from drowning.
But the lack of walls were the key to my freedom. It unlocked my mind which had been beaten down by the barrage of cartoon edutainment, the constant jabber of my older siblings as they returned from their shift down the tripe mines, reliving the same old tales of whippet wrestling, clog polishing and wench-baiting.
And the Smurfs.
See, through those thin walls of cloth, I heard music.
Music that charged my soul.
Armed with only a guitar, and half my wits, and my desire for a creative explosion none had ever seen since the renaissance and possibly other venues of artistry which I was unaware of, I emerged from my self-imposed matriarchal cocoon and joined FAWM 2011, shortly followed by 50/90.
It was a grand adventure resulting in music now lost to the ether of wonderment and ecstasy.
But I was not done.
Such experience taught me that challenges should not be undertaken by the unprepared, the untrusting, the unselfish, nor the unshucked. But as I stared at my guitar, bare and broken, muscles exposed and raw from three months of trecherous toil and torment, I could bear it no longer.
I thrust it into the boiling waters of Styx itself and it emerged an instrument of the gods! Its thunderous roar bellowed forth defiantly as I embraced its reawakened form.
I straddled my bike. I fastened uranium-tipped valve amps to the handlebars because weight has no bearing on my ability to swathe awesome through the streets of life.
I sipped a dark roast, so bitter it could stain the soul of a saint and impregnate the virtuous.
And life was good.
All that remained to make it "perfect" was a walk-on part in that cult classic internet comic, "Debs and Errol".
And now even that wish has been granted, through that embodiment of kindness and generosity that is the fairy geekfather, @errol!
FAWM.
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(I have @errol to thank for my bio - several of the words are perfectly true!
)