Well...I guess here is where I write my little biography. When I was three, my mother accidentally left me in my stroller at our city park. I sat there for a day before I was picked up by Richard, the parks resident hobo. He kept me as his own underneath the bridge at the duck pond, and sustained me with the wet bread and corn the passers by would toss to the fish. When I was 12, I left home to persue other interests, rather than sit under the bridge all day and play a crude form of checkers with Richard. I traveled to the east shore hitching rides, mostly with the vacationing family or the occasional farmer pulling goats. I found the closest pier and stowed away in a ferry bound for Sweden. I lived there then I came home.