I'm Canadian, short, moody and usually craving a warm drink of sorts. All my non-Canadian friends say I have an accent, but I think I just talk too much. I mean really; Look at this word wall of nothing but useless facts about this random girl. My medical history is longer then it should be and my family tree is smaller then I'd like it to be. Music is my inspiration, I have way too many creative ideals for my own good and video games are my addiction. Prone to nostalgic attacks, tonic-clonic seizures, stupor inducing depression, fits of immature humor and insane mood swings, I'm one of those weird introverted people who's trying hard not to become jaded to the world I'm growing up in. For how critical and negative I am and can be, I swear I'm passionate about life and people. It's the main reason I'm an artist. I love to look at things and tear them apart to see how they work. I love constructing things out of the bits of my soul and putting them back together on the outside for others to see and maybe think about. I love movies and books that make me think or wonder. I love art in all its forms for its ability to make you pause and appreciate something you may not see otherwise. It's beautiful, invigorating and passionate. It's worth every minute, every second, every breath. I want to learn violin. To really play it, to make my own music, to take vocal lessons to learn to sing, to have another release for all these overly powerful emotions of mine: the good ones and the bad. I want to be a psychologist, I want to be a nurse, I want to be an engineer. I want to help people, I want to make a difference in someones life, I want to create more. To travel the world, to paint a mural, to love and laugh and maybe find a way to shake that feeling of uselessness, of unfairness, of depression that still clings to me. I WANT TO LIVE. ...Is that really so wrong?

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