As I watched the rain droplets falling on the windows at work today, I was once again reminded of how much I used to love reading. I used to grab a book, a pillow, and some animal crackers on my favorite couch by the window and listen to the raindrops as I read a book or two. My favorites were Encyclopedia Brown, The Great Brain, the Boxcar Children, and anything by Roald Dahl. I think the selection of those books should give you a pretty good idea of who I am. I’m intellectually curious (note that this doesn’t mean I’m intelligent, just that I’m curious about things and will try to increase my knowledge in those things), mischievous with reckless abandon (and perhaps crossing that line of stupidity at times), and at one point felt as though I was abandoned by my parents. For some reason, I just don’t recall too many moments of compassion. I do recall some, but don’t feel like it was permeated throughout my life. Note that this doesn’t mean that this indeed was the case, because if you know anything about me, I have a very high standard for myself and used to hold everyone else to that high standard.