A Short Bio

'Somewhere, just north of the slimy, bog and swamp filled lands of southern Florida is a large, bustling city in northern Florida. It, too, is filled with swamps and bogs and is altogether unpleasant, but people live there anyway, because you've got to make a living, and it's easier to make money working in a place not many people are willing to go. In the middle of the city is a small company - Falcon's Treehouse - a small number of people in an altogether unremarkable building, but with a wholly remarkable purpose - to design theme park rides. Inside is a stout, ginger-haired thirty year old male sporting a pair of glasses, a pair of jeans, a pair of socks, a pair of britches, a pair of Converse sneakers, and a lovely red shirt, because shirts annoyingly aren't sold in pairs. This man wakes up early in the morning and enjoys a lovely spot of tea. As his bleary eyes open, he enjoys the cold, crisp air against his skin as he shivers. He enjoys stretching his stiff bones, and he enjoys climbing off the inflatable mattress that is his home. He then climbs into the bathroom stall and enjoys the unusual way his hair sticks straight up and muses on whether or not it has anything to do with the cold his entire body experienced when he took his shirts and underpants off and whether that made it stand on end. He then climbs into the shower and enjoys the hot water, and then enjoys the cool air again when he gets out. He enjoys putting on his pair of socks, pair of pants, pair of shoes, pair of spectacles, and even his single, non-paired lonely shirt, which did have a friendly pair of arm-holes in it.  He climbs into his car - a beastly, ancient rattling contraption that, in his mind, has a wonderful personality. He arrives to work early, not for any particular reason other than to enjoy arriving early and stress free and fixes a fresh cup of tea and an old, dry English muffin - toasted with a bit of butter (and sometimes honey.) For whatever reason, he seemed to enjoy everything, and his coworkers imagined that he might, in fact, enjoy being stung by bees, probably because bees were a lovely color and he did so enjoy honey on his English muffins each morning. In short, he seemed to enjoy life.  If his colleges had anything at all to say about him, it was this: They all agreed, unanimously and without question, that based on their observation of his habits and the peculiar smile that crept across his mouth as he typed away at his chattering keyboard, that he was perfectly and unquestioningly insane."