Reared by a priestly sect of mythographers and sniper-grade
cheesegraters, I fell into human hands during a tense game of
high-stakes cribbage. While manifesting in this dimension as an unusual
looking tall girl, I frequently participate as a Pattern Mage Adept in
the Spidergames of the alter-Aether. Meanwhile, linguistic variances
allow me to adapt my esoteric mythographic training towards diverse
image-making on this material plane. I am prone to shift reality using
whatever tools available, usually a pen, pencil or paintbrush. Beware
my shimmying colors.

If you think the government is just a gang hired by the banks and the oil conglomerates, come sit next to me.

Language is my dripping, encrusted mud-pie kitchen. I am a trickling
factory of artifacts. My pencils and brushes talk to me about their
days. I report the strangeness of the unquestioned familiar. I crawl
into bottles, boxes, nooks, cubbies, jars, and alcoves. I draw the
universe leaking, and growing antlers. I draw whatever makes me giggle,
cry, stare, and go silent. If it drips, drapes, droops, drops, dreams,
curls, spirals, stairsteps, zigzags, arabesques, waves, castellates,
tesselates, fractures, fuses, fractalizes, filligrees, dribbles, and
melts, it lives in the same world I do.

If you were made of ginger, I'd eat you.