We are either two brains sharing the same virtual body, or one brain split convieniently (or, not so) into two. We’ve been friends since one or both of us was in graduate school, and our birthday(s) lie(s) within a window of six days. Of course, if you employ the plurals in the preceding sentence, the syntax makes no sense. Whatever. At least no one here uses the words “irregardless” or “conversate.” One of us is the funny one; the other uses too many semi-colons and em-dashes. One of us makes no apologies; the other is sorry she accidentally breathed on you while waiting in line at Walgreens.
More specifically:
Percy is a cat who likes plastic; he can’t write, but I can write about him. My name is Sarah, and my mother almost named me Independence. I think I’d kind of dig it if she had. I am one of two writers of this blog; my partner in crime shall remain nameless until he ‘fesses up. As for myself, I’m doing my best to live within my late-twenties purgatory–I’ve chosen Chicago as its location. I work in a fucking grocery store. I have far too many parking tickets. Affinities include, but are not limited to: Woody Guthrie, freckles, crooked teeth, Claritin-highs, John Darnielle, writing fiction, reading Carson McCullers and William Faulkner and Mary Gaitskill, making plans to finally learn to ride a bicycle, tattoos, messing up my hair, and being jittery. I’ll feel guilty if I don’t mention my other cat, Eddie, because I don’t want to play favorites. I’m mostly not kidding. Here, have a popsicle.
