Persian Rug Sunset

I love my family. I love basketball and writing and drawing. I'm a happy person. Not that many people are, I've found.
I love people, and brains, and trying to figure out how people's brains make them do the things they do. Tracing the human ability of Theory of Mind to the left temporoparietal junction is like finding the tributaries of a river filled with gold flecks.
I love words. I love the unconscious effects words have on our brains, and trying to figure out how to exploit that to pack an emotional punch.
I am of the opinion that it is the writer's job to make the reader feel terrible. Angry, unbearably excited, bereaved, tense, lost,  and furious, furious, furious.  If your reader doesn't feel like crap, you're doing something wrong. People who make antique rugs also have this power.
My dad is a storyteller, through Persian rugs. He and I are similar in three important ways: we both like getting up early, we both like fantastical stories where things explode, and we broth write with colored uniball pens that leak all the time.
I have a hard time with unhappiness, in that I don't understand it. Everything I know about it I've learned from fiction. TV, mainly. Whenever I’m unhappy, I feel like a very brief visitor to the land of the sad people. Not a native.
I’m all about heroes being unhappy, though. They need to be internally, subdermally conflicted. I’m not interested in Jesus or Superman or even Neo because they don’t have that inner awful that makes Batman so great.
I’m open about everything. If I share too much, I’m sorry, but sex and embarrassing stories don’t make me blush. Well they do but I carry on anyway. For example: I’m in love with a guy who’s been with his girlfriend for six years. I sleep around, and that’s fun, but seriously. I hope one day to meet someone who cn smash him out of this universe. (Also: Super Smash Brothers is the greatest videogame created by mankind end of story.)