I come from the womb, upside down, backwards, stuck, and ripped out  in a town across the country I know nothing about. I come from a childhood of scrapes, and scratches, and, “I get hurt every day.” When the only important things were who got the jump rope at recess, who claimed the only blue seat on the swing set, and which boy I chased for calling me by my full name, Lucille [which I’ve come to prefer nowadays]. I come from mountains of mud, teas made from poisonous plants in the yard, and old peanut butter jars filled with water, soap, and Barbie clothes swirling around in a makeshift, stick-powered washing machine. I come from looking up to my sister, trying to emulate her, only to end up completely different from, and an inch taller than. I come from Rob Zombie and Marilyn Manson filling my ears, and Star Wars assaulting my eyes. I come from a nest made of sculpting tools and colored pencils, needles, thread, and sequins too. I come from an early adolescence filled with bullying and hatred, but also filled with love and individuality. I come from the ashes of the fallen queens who walked through our doors and showered us with glitter, music, and most of all acceptance and pride. I come from a crayon and a coloring book. A pen and a paper. I come from a puppet playhouse and a family. A stage and an audience. I come from a cave where extinct species are actually just hidden away. Once I saw one leave, and made it my mission to go out into the world to find him. I come from a brain that works much too fast, and much too hard. I come from a time when typewriters, pocket-watches, and baby-buggies were the norm, and I strive for their return. I come from old cartoons and Disney films. The animators drew me too. I come from a place where creation and love take precedent. I come from the depths of the ocean, from the sand where my tentacles grew. I come from here, and now. There and then. I come from them, and I come from you. This, right here, is where I come from.