I stand and walk 20 degrees askew.

I roll my eyes back until all I can see is my own brain, which dreams of fantasy and future. And the thing's that I've left behind.

I am the Grinch, when it comes to a present.

I am a tiny, overcooked loaf of bread. I fantasize about the time when I was brown and when everyone around me in the oven was doughy.

I am not hard, as evidenced by the scratches on my exterior. But I am tough. Unbent. Like steel.