30-something transient humanoid. I spilled an entire glass of diet cola while thinking about what to type here. Writer of bad poetry and fiction. I blotted it up with a soiled bath towel that was still a little damp. Dry land, Planet Earth. The glass took a really hard bounce off the floor. You wouldn’t pick me out of a crowd—it’s possible you might pick me out of a crowd but I’m not objective enough to know for sure. It didn’t shatter.
—N. Ian McCarthy