Live. Breathe. Create.

November 16, 1980. It was a murky, rainy day. And that is the day that I chose to grace the world with my presence--two weeks late.  The doctors had to do a ceserian to get me out, but wouldn't begin until the insurance went through.  So, after eleven excruciating hours of labor, they finally cut my mother open.  My parents were expecting a boy. I was going to be Nicholas Carl.  So when a little girl popped out they were unprepared and I was 'Baby Spond' for two full days before they could agree on a name. 

I guess they should have known from the get go that I was going to be trouble, but I was actually a good kid.  I never did anything I was explicity told not to.  Unfortunately for them, I was an imaginitive child and found things to do that they never thought of.  They never thought to say "Michelle, don't climb on the china cabinet," or "Michelle, don't give your new barbie a mohawk," or "Michelle, don't give your brand new toys away to your friends," or--my all time favorite--"Michelle, don't cut up Mommy's new blouses to make barbie clothes."  It must be a bitch, having a creative kid, and I am absolutely certain that one of these days, Karma is going to come around and kick my ass.

Regardless, my parents were always very supportive and when I was thirteen my mother brought me home my first journal from the supermarket.  When I asked her what it was for she told me "whatever you want to use it for?" I wrote my first clumsy and awkward novel in that journal--and from there, it ballooned.  It was the first time I'd written something that long and now I find myself with a bigger problem writing short things! Yes, Mom, I blame you.

After two and a half years at Brookdale Community College in which I thought I wanted to be a marine biologist (and realized I must be crazy to think I wanted to learn all that math), I transfered to Ramapo College of New Jersey, where I made some great friends and spent a lot of time correcting my teachers. I started at six with my mother's grammar and just never did manage to break the habit.  I graduated with a BA in Literature in December 2003, and am proud to announce, like all college graduated in this day and age, have never done a thing with the degree I'm still paying out the nose for.

In 2004 I moved to a rooming house in Haverstraw, NY because I wanted to be near my friends and was already way too old to live at home with my parents and not risk being that good for nothing 40 year old slob who thinks doing the dishes once a week and occassionally taking out the garbage counts as 'paying the rent'--unfortunately, I don't like being stereotyped, so 'useless bachelor' was way off the list of things I wanted to do with my life.  I took a job as a secretary at a Commercial Real Estate Office that was on the cusp of retirement and finding I had way too much time on my hands, I started reading books on art and teaching myself to draw.

After three years I returned to Hazlet, NJ, with promise of a better paying job and a nicer place.  Well, the business got sold, the job disappeared, but I still managed a decent job, a nice place, a gay roommate, and two psychotic cats.

Cut to present, isn't life grand?