"Why is this a thing?" It all began when I realized I could think. While the boys and girls in my classes squealed about their bright, plastic toys and pulled splinters from their wiggly toes, I sat at my desk, eyes ablaze with possibility. I observed at first, until I had compiled a large enough database of characters, actions, plots, and ideas in my overactive brain. I pieced them together unlike a puzzle - more like I was mixing a drink. A gratuitous amount of humor. A teaspoon of angst. I didn't even bother to count how many drinks I mixed in those beginning years, nor how many I left unattended, in the hot sun, until algae grew on the bottom of the glass. Now I preserve these ideas on paper, on a document, anywhere, honestly. I don't bother to organize most of my thoughts. I'd rather not spell things out. Even adhering to spelling is ridiculous to me. Then again, I'm ridiculous.