Archive for January, 2010

IQ and the funny smart business

January 28, 2010

IQ and the idea of a genius.

A month ago I took a formal IQ test, wondering of course, if I could join Mensa.

I received the results from this IQ test today.

It stated that I had an overall IQ of 136.

Now, I had no idea how IQs were rated so I decided to do a little research, like I always seem to be doing.

This is what I’ve found:

Lewis Terman (1916) developed the original notion of IQ and proposed this scale for classifying IQ scores:

  • Over 140 – Genius or near genius
  • 120 – 140 – Very superior intelligence
  • 110 – 119 – Superior intelligence
  • 90 – 109 – Normal or average intelligence
  • 80 – 89 – Dullness
  • 70 – 79 – Borderline deficiency
  • Under 70 – Definite feeble-mindedness

Genius IQ is generally considered to begin around 140 to 145, representing ~.25% of the population (1 in 400).  Here’s a rough guide:

  • 115-124 – Above average (e.g., university students)
  • 125-134 – Gifted (e.g., post-graduate students)
  • 135-144 – Highly gifted (e.g., intellectuals)
  • 145-154 – Genius (e.g., professors)
  • 155-164 – Genius (e.g., Nobel Prize winners)
  • 165-179 – High genius
  • 180-200 – Highest genius
  • >200 – ‘Unmeasurable genius'”

Now considering they stated that my IQ was 136, that would deem me to have “very superior intelligence” or “highly gifted (e.g., intellectuals)” but for some reason I don’t believe it.

I know I’ve got something about me, but I always thought more on my creativity and charisma than on my apparent ‘smarts’.

It’s a stupid, not-really-in-my-right-mind-post but for some reason the number 136 is now very unsettling.

– Cal.

P.S. Wondering where those numbers came from? Look here:


luggage and hearts and rings on my fingers

January 28, 2010

“I don’t have to worry about emotional baggage I can sell it on eBay.”


Of the packing variety. Almost there.

And hearts…

Why is it exes always show up out of the blue without a comprehensible reason for re-entering your life?

And rings on my fingers…

The favourite ring that I found under my old wardrobe. Heaven forbid how it came to be there.

But basically this:

1. I treated myself to a new haircut, facial, pedicure, manicure, waxing and massage yesterday.

2. I pretended to pack, all the while crawling into places made for a far smaller person than me, of course with the added benefit of finding forgotten or presumed lost jewellery.

3. I poked fun at my own inability to be coherent when answering the phone. Communication is not one of my strong points.

4. I found out that the local supermarket sells sugar cubes. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard of this before.

5. I spent too much of the afternoon attempting to cook, considering I’ve decided that holding a dinner party is the exact need-to-do for an eighteenth birthday.

6. I taste-tested my own horrible cooking and am now feeling sick, thus deciding that sugar cubes would fix that problem.

7. It’s one-hour away from  a couple dozen friends, family and frenemies entering this place I call a home and berating me about the lack of productive activity in my day.

8. I’ve now decided it’s a good thing that I can’t cook. It might shut them up.

9. I’ve also decided that now is the perfect time to write a new bloggy up considering I’ve recently drenched myself in cold water (who knew you needed to replace old water heating systems?!), attempted to find an outfit that won’t raise eyebrows, added way too much product to my now short and spiky ink of a haircut and even found I now lack the ability to apply make-up without it going everywhere on my face.

So here I sit, looking a bit like a clown and wondering why-oh-why my smile is lopsided. (Damn you webcam!) I’m also considering how completely empty the house now looks without majority of my junk everywhere. I can even see the carpet, not that I knew I had carpet…

I’ve also come around to the fact that no matter how much distance I put between myself and my past, there’s always going to be some annoying person willing to spoil the illusion.

So… annoyingly rambling as usual, but that’s what you get for actually reading my horrendous writing. You get squabble. Not intelligent squabble either.

– Cal.

hoarding and gender anxiety

January 26, 2010

“Performing music is like sex. Hot, passionate and sometimes you get so sweaty it looks like you’ve taken a shower on stage. Either way, they’re always screaming your name.”

I need someone to come and throw all of my junk out.

I’m a hoarder. I always knew this but now it’s just so obvious.

I was packing today (finally getting somewhere) and I’ve only packed one third of my stuff and I’ve already filled my car. And even though I try to throw things away, I really do, they just keep finding their way back into the ‘must-have’ pile. I’m far too attached I think.

Besides my obvious failure at any type of readiness for life I’ve spent the morning reading erotic stories, editing my own novel (which is infuriating me slightly) and feeling slightly sick at my gender today.

For once in a long time I feel without a gender today.

And for some reason it’s screwing with my head a bit. Maybe it’s added pressure from my parents to get ready, or the anxiety seeing my extended family and their horrible homophobic ideals, or it could even be the fact that I’m going swimming again, for the first time in years.

I don’t really know, I just feel… out of it today.

I want to clearly grab onto something today but it’s out of reach, and it’s annoying me.

I put on make-up, then I take it off.

I style my hair, then I rough it up.

I put on clothes, then I take them off again.

Thank goodness swimming only needs a bathing suit otherwise I wouldn’t be going anywhere today.

I’m just running today. The typical Cal signature of, ‘ Oh fuck, this is too much for my brain to handle so I’m going to go running full pelt down the street, fall over something and get laughed at.’

I haven’t run from anything in awhile, in fact the last time was the day before my graduation last year and I ended up a five hour drive away from home with a major headache. Today I’d take that headache over anything else.

I’m feeling a bit asexual today as well. I can look a hetero porn and get nothing, then I can read man-to-man porn and get nothing, trans-porn is nothing, queer dyke porn is nothing… It’s just all nothing today.

It’s a bit hard to explain, even to myself and I’m sure that I’m completely non-coherent but at least that’s gotten a little bit off my chest.

I’ll update tomorrow, after I get my hair and a facial.

Until then, goodbye.

– Cal.

packing pegs and that damn thing called an orgasm

January 25, 2010

“If I praise you then I can swear whole-heartedly it was by accident. If I insult you though, be well assured it was all done with premeditation.”

Isn’t it amazing when…

You’re only five days away from moving out of your home (yet again) and you’ve only packed pegs. But still, I guess I’ll be able to hang my laundry… That’s of course if I had any.

Yes, the dastardly days of packing and squishing and attempting to make that huge amount of clothes fit into a suitcase that was never meant to hold that much in the first place. The week has arrived and as usual I’m horribly behind schedule.

But besides the fact the only thing I’ll be taking to Uni is pegs, I spent majority of my morning showed in contemplation over orgasms and the variety that I’ve experienced in my life.

Now, being one of those few people who orgasm quite regularly and easily, sometimes it even taking me by surprise, I sometimes forget that others aren’t so easy in the sack. So, while sitting on the shower floor wondering why on earth I had yet to fix the leaking shower head I thought about how I would classify my orgasmic experiences.

I’ve come up with three:

Orgasm A: clitoris, G-spot, penetration… The whole deal here, not saying that I need all at the same time to reach climax (considering that my arms are not that long, neither are my fingers sadly) but these are the three main things that result in one of those ‘oh-my-god-i-can-see-the-light’ orgasms. You know them, the ones that make it feel as though your lungs had de-compressed and that your muscles might snap under the pressure. Now, being the egotistical person that I am (even in the bed, sorry to say) I practiced and practiced this orgasm until well, I eventually got sick of it at some point. Currently, (my lovely boasting) I can have six consecutive A orgasms. I haven’t reached any further because, to be truthful, it made me too damn tired.

Orgasm B: also known to me as the pressure orgasm… This is a preparation orgasm, or one that you just squeeze in between you’ve spent the better half of the morning watching pornography and had forgotten you were meant to be out at lunch 15 minutes ago. This orgasm is quick and easy, well for me. Considering research that the clitoris, while seeming small and very localized for some, is actually about 16 to 17 centimeters long in the average woman. Now that is a lot of pleasure that can be taken use of right there. Of course the G-spot is located along the clitoris, and further up into the vagina to if I’m correct but what the pressure orgasm is, is that it focuses on a small length of the clitoris between what we formally know as the ‘clitoris’ and the ‘G-spot’. And then it’s simple. No movement, just pressure, and lots of it. Using anything I, or you like, usually. It takes only a minute as it has the same effect as Orgasm A but is a bit ‘duller’ I guess you could say. Still works to get you prepped and ready to go though.

Orgasm C: also known as the ‘look-no-hands’ orgasm… This is in fact one orgasm that I can have just reading an article on sex. It’s quicker, a bit longer lasting, even if the climax isn’t all that appreciative of the effort my brain has put in to supply the necessary pictures. I usually barely notice this nowadays, not to say I don’t enjoy it or I’ve become so used to it then I won’t ride it out for as long as possible, it’s just that I’ve been having these for three years without any stimulation of a body part; besides the brain. I’ve only ever met a few others who can have an orgasm like this, but I feel sorry for those who can’t. Some people really miss out on all the fun.

I might also add in a side-note here for all those who love a good bum-waggling femme. Apparently the most a woman wriggles her bum or ‘shimmies’ when she walks, the stronger her orgasm will be. I guess this has to do with the muscles and how we use them, so get bum-waggling.

Now, enough of my orgasm talking-mind… I also just noticed that I’ve already written 700-off words. Funny how it’s so easy to write when you’ve really got nothing interesting to say.

So, what else do I have to say?

Save me, is one thing, and save her, is another. Neither of which make any sense even though in the horror movie I was watching last night, it make all the sense in the world. Maybe I need to a hire a guy running around with a chainsaw to motive this kind of logical screaming.

That’s my little insight into the strange workings of my mind, today. Hope you enjoyed and stay tuned for more runaway-through action tomorrow.

– Cal.

writing it all down

January 23, 2010

“If I could write down every word in my head it would be quite a contradictory story.”

Writing things in a blog always makes them come out so much smoother, well, that’s what I’ve found anyway.

Not much to say today.

Researching environmentalism and it’s link to the LGBT community. Why, you may ask? Top secret stuff.

Okay, not really top secret but I’ve been reading too much information on Uganda’s new Anti-Homosexualist Bill to care enough to actually tell you all.

Maybe tomorrow?

I’ve got too many ideas swirling around in my head, and none of them make much sense.

So, to summarize my day so far:

Checked e-mails.


Checked e-mails again.

Researched again.

Eventually found enough edible food to qualify it as a meal.

Ate said edible food.

Researched again.

Threw out old clothing. (This caused a sliver of water to run down my cheek though I’m sure I can blame it on a non-existent cold if I’m ever asked.)

Blogged. Blogging… Writing this damn blog.

Writing it all down, as the title states.

I’ll update tomorrow and continue on with my crazy mind adventures.

– Cal.

Tipped and toed.

“Higher, you must be taller.”

Pushing, straightening; legs surely breaking…

“Stay and be firm.”

Staying, falling and breaking.

Too tipped on my toes.

double post: nudity and fear

January 22, 2010

“I have a funny feeling that Santa Claus is behind this.”

It’s a double post today. Why? Because I’ve got so much to say and so little time.

Okay, so yesterday, as I was avoiding the cover letter I had to write for a scholarship fund I somehow decided it would be a good idea to go through my old computer and have a look what’s on there.

Oh and behold, what did I find?

Pictures. Of me. Nude.

It seems my fascination with sexuality, gender and nudity goes back further than I can remember. Not to mention the need to express all my ideas in photographic from.

In my stumbling I found three hidden folders, each containing a photographic series in which I’m nude. Now if the time stamp on these such folders is correct then the first series, titled: Sex with Light was taken when I was 14 and I believe that it was also a joint project with a fellow photographer friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in years.

The second series was: Bare the Truth and was taken when I was 15. It displays me and four of my friends either nude of partially nude with different drawn versions of the sign ‘Bare the Truth’ as it were.

The third series, and probably the most dastardly for someone of the age 15 was… Erotic Language. Yikes! What on earth was I thinking at young, clean age 15?!

Then I realized that I’d  been watching porn since I was 13 so it didn’t really matter that somewhere in my fifteen year old mind I found it alright to pose erotically using the aid of sign language to actually point out the differences of male and female sexual culture.

But, that was then and this is now. I like to think I’ve gotten a bit more subtle. Apparently not. You see, looking back I can tell that majority of those messages I was trying to send, they’re about all the same things that I’m currently fighting for.

I had thought I’d evolved (and sure my technical photographic skills have) but the way my mind processes such issues as sex, sexuality, gender, eroticism and society seem not to have changed since that tender age. (Though I do use tender in reference to my buttocks which seems a little bit fuller in some of them photographs than it is now. But then again I can’t swivel my head 180 degrees on my neck either.)

Seeing these earlier expressions made me realize that I wanted to show these to the world. Young, and counting as child porn, yes but I feel it was the most untainted view I had on some issues back then.

Right now my focus is on sexuality and gender, trying to fill in the gap between normal and abnormal (in society’s dictations). But some of the ideas I must have had back then were just… well a little mature of my age. Seriously, what 15 year old things about eroticism in terms of sign language? (I believe I was influenced by a young deaf girl I had met on one of my many travels in those days.)

It’s a little unnerving, but it also gives me a sense of certainty. I’ve been doing this for awhile I’ve realized. Sure, awhile is four to three years but better than nothing.

And the fear…

I’ve written something similar to this before, in my very first post as it were, but I don’t know how many people and read that and for starters, if I don’t self-express somewhere soon (why does that sound so dirty to me?!) I’m probably going to end up screaming at some inanimate object.

And nobody wants that.


What on earth would I be afraid of?

Um… Life in general actually.

You see in my ‘practically-a-new-years-resolution-and-goal-post’ a.k.a. Wanted: Dead or Alive, I set myself many standards and many things to achieve.

I’d almost forgotten the fact about why they were still undone.

Self-doubt, not the ‘oh-i’ll-wake-up-in-the-morning-and-it’ll-be-gone’ type but the crippling, ‘please-don’t-take-the-covers-off-me-I’m-dying-inside’ type.

I’ve written majority of this before but I’m writing it again because it never really disappears for me. No matter how much I talk about it, try and get over it, think I get over it, realize I’m not over and fall flat on my face again, I can still never seem to anticipate it.

My self-doubt is an odd beast I think.

I’m terrified of not having my dreams come true.

And I’m terrified of having them come true.

So how does self-doubt fit into this equation?

I doubt that if I get everything I want that I’ll be happy, and I doubt that if I don’t I’ll probably still have the same feelings.

I want to change the world, but I also want my life.

I haven’t yet figured out how these to mix evenly enough to coincide in my heart yet, and I figure it’ll take a little bit more time.

But now, being in the questioning society that I am, other thoughts have begun to seep into my mind and further feed my fear of the future.

“What if I turn out not to be queer?!” – Kind of stupid really and even the thought of kissing a guy is kind of gut-wrenching, no offense to them or anything.

“What if I decide I don’t like what I’ve done to my body?!” – Another stupid one really, it’s a bit too late to go back on several tattoos and many piercings. But then again, with the rate of plastic surgery, who knows?

“What if I hate what I’ve become?!” – This is probably a more legitimate one. I’ve always promised myself that I would be a righteous person. Fight for the little people. Bring perspective to an ignorant world. But what happens if I turn out to be my own worst nightmare?

That’s what stops me from falling asleep at night.

It’s officially a week till my 18th Birthday, so it’s also officially a week until I move into my Uni accommodation.

Suddenly my future is right there and my door and all I want to do is turn on the TV or pretend I’m not home.

But since, knowing myself and my huge ego, I won’t ever admit this to anyone vocally. I’ll admit it to this blog because well, I don’t know if I’ll ever meet any of you in real-life, unless of course you’re reading this as one of my few friends who know the truth about me.

But anyway, there it is. Fear of the future and what I might become, but a fear that nobody will ever know because my pride eats up the air I breath it’s so domineering.

I’d like some thoughts about this… Or at least some advice.

– Cal.

you can’t paint over confusion

January 21, 2010

“The world ain’t got nothing on me.”

Development in life.

The first credited and recognised work from my newest photographic collection: Binary.

“You Can’t Paint Over Confusion” was the original concept photograph for the Binary series and is now to be put at the fore-front of the series as an introductory piece.

Binary is a series of photographs exploring the relationship I share with my body in regards to sexuality and gender, as well as a physical manifestation of the ‘wrongness’ that society dictates to me.

I’m hoping to be posting some of the photographs up here as soon as I determine which ones will play a major role in the series but for now I’ll just leave you with this:

Introductory piece of the new photographic series: Binary. Credited as Elm Woods, 2009.

Anyway… I’ve got nothing else to say today.

– Cal.

femme is not a gender

January 20, 2010

Today I had the unwelcome experience of being question by another member of the small LGBT community I belong to.

I was asked how could I be both genderqueer and a femme.

I’ve stated this before but I’m going to reiterate: my queerness in terms of gender takes two forms; a. the days I feel particularly masculine and exert this physically to society and b. the days I feel without a gender, like I’m floating in the middle of a giant gender ocean meeting no harbour.

What pissed me off about this question was that after I answered, they told that I wasn’t correct.


I’m not correct about what labels I choose for myself?

I was told that someone who associated to society as a femme could not be genderqueer.

I swear I could almost hear my knuckles cracking on their own accord.

You see, it took me a long time (a year at the most, which is a long time for me in regards to my ideas of time) to coalesce myself into the person who states proudly: “Hi, I’m a genderqueer kinky bottom femme who sucks at cooking and anything domestic.”

I, myself haven’t met any other genderqueers, and I have yet to stumble across a genderqueer femme, so I guess that lends to the theory that we might not be very common.

But for me, the gender association of ‘femme’ in which I present a more feminine approach to society is a choice. I wasn’t forced to suppress my gender because of it. I chose to be a femme because I liked the way it makes me feel.

Now I admit, some days, I wish that I could just be cis-gendered. I wish everything was just laid out plain and simple for me to understand. But it’s not, and that’s one of the things that makes me who I am.

Not understanding my own gender took a lot of understanding and researching on my part, it look a lot of exploration in regards to what felt comfortable to me and when.

‘How would I change my appearance to suit the gender assignment of the day? ‘ was a common question in my mind and slowly I fashioned myself an identity that allowed me to accept my gender, however I was feeling at the time, and still maintain the femininity in my outside demeanour.

So what made this person so openly question who and what I was?

A lack of knowledge I’m hoping. They barely knew me, though they did know of me, but I found it hard to consider judging someone and even second-guessing them before I even knew them. The thought is incomprehensible to me, and yet it happens a lot more often than I would care to know.

So this is my little rant session, trying to vent all my anger at being, not discriminated against, but misunderstood in my own ‘supposed’ community.

I might also stress the point that I ran into a horny teenage boy in Omegle today. Omegle of course being the latest internet chat craze where you talk to complete strangers for no reason.

Anyway, he stated something that worried me: ‘Yeah but all lesbians are bit a bi, aren’t they.’

It looks like the youth still have a long way to go in terms of sexuality and gender understanding.

But that’s me for today.

Over and out.

– Cal.

wanted: dead or alive

January 14, 2010

“If people were cookies I think you’d be double chocolate chip with macademia nuts.”


Back to the world with 2010 and along with a whole new head of worries.

I’m back, moreso, my computer is back. Holiday was long, I got sunburnt and eaten by mosquitos as well as being insult by text messages because I kissed one of my straight friends for New Years Eve. Bollocks.

I’ve been meaning to write this for awhile, (i.e. it’s being sitting inside, stewing about in my mind while I painted my nails again an again) so I’ve decided to let it all hang out. My dreams for 2010, my expectations, my fears and all that loverly denial I have. So where should I begin?

I’m petrified of…

Myself. Yes, that person staring back in the mirror is terrifying to me. Her hair is messy, her skin is bumpy and red, let’s not even describe the state of her make-up and her smile is crooked; but none of this is really the problem.

That girl in the mirror, she’s not me and it’s taken me so long to realise it. You see, I’m the short-black-haired girl who wears dark lipstick, talks about gender and sexual equality, sex in general, contradictory religion, patriachal society and it’s effects on feminism. I’m the girl who spends majority of her time alone, writing or painting or composing. I’m the girl who walks down the street amid taunts and who somehow still keeps her head high.

But I’m also not her. This person that I am is simply a product of what my life experiences have created. To be truthful…

I have long blonde curly hair, I don’t wear make-up all that much and I don’t really like confrontation. I prefer to stay quiet than to talk up a storm and I prefer to hide away everything I create because I don’t believe anybody could really understand.

These two people, one of them Cal, the other with an unmentionable name; they don’t fit together. They’re my past and my present and neither can represent my future; not how they are right now so I’m at a loss.

I’m confused. I’m confused because in two weeks I’m expected to go to a place, make new friends, live my dreams and just be a person but that’s something I don’t know how to do.

I don’t know how to show people every side of myself. I’m an enigma, even to me and it kills me inside at times.

I can label myself all I want, but in truth, I’m the girl whose dreams exceed her means. I’m the girl who walks with her head high but whose feet stumble on the ground because she’s too scared to wear her glasses. I’m the girl who still won’t smile wide because the memory of her braces is too startling to consider what she looks like without them. I’m the girl who composes music but can’t read it; the girl who can’t sequence properly and who has to read majority of things three or four times before it actually makes sense. I’m the girl who wishes on stars, believes in fairytales and wants nothing more than to be rescued.

But I’m also the girl who knows better than that. I’ll stumble and trip, smile through insecurity and pretend that I understand what my eyes are seeing even if it’s all jumbled in my mind.

I won’t be rescued from myself; I have to learn how to rescue myself first before anything else can be done.

I have to learn how to accept this multi-faceted person and that nobody is ever going to know each side of me; not yet.

I have to learn how to accept that labels, no matter how much I might despise them at times, are beneficial to not just my understanding of who I am, but everyone else’s too.

I have to learn that fear is empowering, and that’s going to be a long process.

I dream of…

Pictures… The way the actors move and say those words I’ve written. The storylines that weave a pattern in my mind and that I cannot rightfully put down on a sheet of paper but try over and over again because it’s all I can think about.

Conversations… The talkshow that I’ll produce and the people that’ll make it amazing; the views they’ll have and the success that’ll come with it, as well as the acknowledgement that I’ve made a difference.

Music… The double meanings and the chords, the rhythms and the melodies that I can share. A refuge for those concerned, dreaming, confused and wishing. I could create a world.

I’m a dreamer, and I can admit some of my dreams may never come to fruitation but I’m sure of some. These are the ones that I’m going to fight for this year, and that I promise and swear to you all, I’m going to do…

1. Publish a book – the already completed “As You Were” that catalogues the possible future I might have if I give up, something that is used for me as a retaliation to all my inner-insults.

2. Photograph the truth – all the people in the LGBT community; each label, each couple and each piece of language that echoes in their mind. I’m going to capture it somehow, and you’re all going to see it.

3. Hold an exhibition – I refuse to sell the art or give it away, it has to have meaning before I can do that. People and their perspectives have to give it meaning, so that’s what I’m searching for.

4. Make a movie – expose the trials, tribulations and discrimination against transfolk. Something I can’t rightfully understand but something greatly unappreciated: the struggle some of these people go through.

5. Start a talkshow – I’ve got things to say and damn me to hell, I’m going to say them, but I know I don’t have all the words, so what better way to find all the others?

6. Work how I want – stripping and prostitution. Sexuality, gender and sexism is so easily displayed in sex; you can read person in it and I plan of reading alot of people, not because I think it’s cool but because we’re all human and sometimes the world isn’t as simple a place as we would like it to be.

7. Date who I want – finally not categorize the people I see and just want who I want, whether it’s the foxy red-haired femme polishing off her third martini or the butch at the pool table giving everyone else a whipping. People are beautiful and I want to see it.

So that’s what I want, and it’s what I’m going to get as well. Doesn’t sound like much at all, does it?

I believe the world…

Can give real equality, not just to the LGBT community but to everybody on this whole damn, retched planet. REAL equality, that means country vs. country, race vs. race, religion vs. religion, job vs. job, sexuality vs. sexuality and life vs. life. No-one more effected than others, and no-one more forgotten.

Can overcome it’s war with words, unless of course we’ve all forgotten our education and have taken to sticks and stones again.

Can be environmental again, really admire nature and the way it controls us, and not the other way around. To care about the environment in all ways, not just the parts that immediately effect you.

Can make a difference to poverty and create a proper global economy that we as humans can be proud of, instead of using and abusing each other.

Can give a voice to those who can’t rightly speak – Give the people real nerve to make hard decisions when it comes to disabled people. I believe in euthanasia.

And I’m in denial of the fact that…

My parents don’t believe me when I tell them I’m gay, and that they’re thinking along the lines: ‘As soon as she finds a nice boy he’ll straighten her out’.

My extended family thinks I’m an extremist because I choose to speak out about things that immoral and that I can appreciate the beauty of tattoos and their meaning, whether symbolic or otherwise.

My friends don’t bitch about me behind my back, because they’re meant to be my friends right?

So, here I am world.

The odd, quirky, eccentric person who wakes each morning a little bit different than the day before. A person with a loud mouth and stretch-marks on her bum (the only claim to fame she has). A person who enjoys pornography and finds sex fascinating. A person who still has no idea who she really is, but is determined to find out, whatever the cost.

I’m wanted: dead or alive.

– Cal.