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Who am I? Ruled by the sun, I have a taste for
anything shiny, beautiful and expensive. Sour Saturn
in the eighth house disfavors affairs of the heart,
but practical Virgo in the second promises
materialistic rewards. Papa is an artist with paint
and brush, Mama a genius with trowel and shovel. Mama
is a beatnik intellectual who emphasizes the value of
the dollar. Papa raves like an anarchist, then proves
himself socially conservative, "Can't stand rings
through noses!" They have instilled in me an
oxymoronical compromise: a desire to be practical, yet
creative, seek financial stability, yet place the
immaterial upon a pedestal. A difficult path to
follow.  Features have lopsided as a result: the left
side has atrophied, nose points to the right, favoring
the bigger-the better philosophy of life. The left
eye has enlarged to focus on the subtler aspects. My
smile is off-center, laughing and crying over it all.
I rebel; put my arms out to my sides, balance on
fences, sidewalk edges, and ropes instead. Natural
selection has bleached this steppe-child's skin the
color of snow. Hair neither blond, nor brown, medium
height, weight, I'm 38. (Actually I’m 37, but it
doesn’t rhyme.) Ambition and temperament have led me
to intellectual pursuits, trouble sends my nose into a
book or my feet a-walking to fill my lungs with cool
night air. Bluish-blooded grandparents taught me to
eat meals in courses, not to talk with my mouth full,
and play piano.
Then when I least expect it, a serf lurking in my
genealogy raises her fatalistic head, cackling, "If
you drink beer, you die. If you don't drink beer, you
still die. Might as well drink beer."
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