Biography

I realize that the proper term is autobiography, since this section is written by me, about me. But guess what? I don't particularly care. A word is a word is a word, and my story by any other name is still my story.

My surname is Martinez and my personal name is April, and there is a slight flaw in my character. If you don't know where I got that line, you haven't read one of my favorite books, Bridge of Birds by Barry Hughart.

I'm 26 years old, going on 8. I write a little, draw a little, sing a little, dance a little, and every now and then I even web design a little -- do you like my site? Never mind.

I was born in a country that holds the record for the number of ferry boat accidents in a year, to a man and a woman who look silly while disco dancing in polyester. (It's true. I saw the old homemade films.)

I was raised on fairy tales and superstition, but I no longer believe that radios house tiny orchestras. Nor do I believe that a lot of crying straightens out curls,... but I'm still a little "iffy" on that point, since I did a lot of crying as a kid and I currently have thick straight hair.

As I write this I reside in California, waiting for the day this golden state snaps off and floats away. I have a sweatshirt that states "STOP PLATE TECTONICS", but I'm beginning to believe that it's a lost cause because no one else will rally with me.

What do I do for a living? I play with digital crayons in a studio disguised as a bat cave, and posted on the door is a sign that reads: "THIS DEPARTMENT SAVES ENERGY BY WORKING IN THE DARK." Whenever I go outside, the light blinds me nearly into non-existence, and I find myself running away from crosses held by religious fanatics.

Yes, seriously. I kid you not.

Someday, I'd like to get away from the bat cave and write "The Great American Novel"... but only if that title isn't already taken. I'd also like to climb the highest mountain in my backyard and learn how to whistle Dixie Cups^TM.

If there's one thing I fear, it's people who would read this with a straight face. And here's another scary thought: Pop Tart Soup served with raw oysters and bittermelon. Ew.

And hypocrites. I can't stand hypocrites. Naturally, that banishes many politicians from my list of friends. The same goes for pompous, nit-picky, anal critics as well. I respect only those politicians who live like and understand the common man, and only those critics who create successfully in the medium they critique.

Forget that saying about not criticizing a man unless you've walked a mile in his shoes. Here's my take on it: Don't let anyone without any feet criticize or choose the shoes you wear.

Or something like that.

Anyway, my name is April Martinez. You killed my father. Prepare to die.*