It took several minutes more for the noise to annoy me to a point where I abandoned the warmth and comfort of my bed, but eventually I went to investigate. Downstairs, I stood silently before the door of the first floor bedroom suite. It was open, but all I could see were dark shadows dancing wildly upon the walls. Afraid to move forward I stood in the coldness and darkness of the living room, listening. Now and then I could hear guttural sounds that chilled me to the bone. Finally, I entered the room, fully expecting to find my grandmother in the throes of death. Instead, I observed my father, and his mother and sister jostling one another as they struggled to hold someone down on the bed. It was then that I realized that it had to be my mother.

To my inexperienced eyes she was not in the throes of a massive hemorrhagic stroke but caught in some sort of surreal conflict within a literal Dantean hell, one in which a conspiracy of demonic proportions was under way to torture and kill the most important person in my life. Rushing forward to turn her tormentors away, I placed myself in the middle of the fray. Instantly my aunt pushed me aside. My father in turn blocked my view by spreading his arms out to capture me and herd me out of the room. With the light behind him, he was silhouetted, a shadowy bird of prey with whirring wings, intent on devouring me.

In the relative calm of the living room my father drew me close and pointed a trembling finger vaguely toward the open front door of our house. “Run and get Dr. Crockett!” he said, softly, but sternly. Then he quickly returned to my mother’s side.

Trying to do as I was told, I put on an oversized jacket torn randomly from a hallway rack and ran the short distance to the road. Once there I looked north and south in search of light, but there was none. It was only then that I suddenly realized that I had never heard of a doctor Crockett and had absolutely no idea who or where he might be. Still, afraid of the dire consequences of returning home without him, I trudged on. Somewhere in Corolla someone would surely know the phantom physician and direct me to his house. I walked north as far as the dunes beyond the lighthouse then retraced my steps back to where I had begun. Heading south, I continued on for half an hour, but seeing no lights at all at point, I turned again and headed home, stopping along the way to read the name on every mailbox I passed along the way.

The night my mother died I sat alone on Flotsom Shanty’s broad front veranda and continued to wander the dark, sandy street of my mind, twisting and turning back on myself in search of someone who might have saved my mother, someone who might now save me. “If only I had found the Doctor in time,” I thought, “maybe...?” But the words kept slipping silently away, carrying with them my half eaten heart.

About daybreak, my father came outside to say the words I feared, words that could never be called back again; words that would make the nightmare real. My mother was gone, and forever, and with her all that was left of me.

My father finally suggested that I go to the kitchen, get something to eat then return to my bed. “There is nothing more we can do,” he whispered, as though he was afraid to awaken someone sleeping within the house.

I knew I could not accomplish either of those tasks on my own. I was not hungry, but for love, and sleep enough to forget would not be mine until the end of my days. For now there was no time or place for me, or rest. There was only an emptiness inside that could not be satisfied or filled by food or lost and forgotten in sleep. The acids of fear, envy, and rage were upon me then and I was utterly alone upon the earth.

By noon everyone knew my secret, but nothing was said to me. None of the other children understood or cared. How could they? Why would they. Their parents were alive, and they were safe. They had always been safe, would always be safe. My father, alone, seemed to share my grief, but even he, though visibly shaken and in pain, said nothing. He was a strong man, holding his own, and obviously expected no less of me.

Half way through the midday meal I pushed my untouched plate away and excused myself to go to the bathroom. There I hoped to be sick, alone and unseen. When I was through, I went to the room where my mother lay and sat down beside her corpse, remaining silent for awhile for fear of disturbing her. In time, however, my anger overwhelmed my sadness, my senses and my grief.

Finally, I began to speak. "Don't leave me," I begged. "Don't do this terrible thing!" But my mother would not listen. She could not hear. Then an abject, wretched helplessness and hopelessness swept over me and I realized that prayers and promises meant nothing now, not hers, not mine, not anyone's. And all the tears in the world could not wash away the shadow of what I felt.

Then a roar rose in my throat. I could not hold it back. I stood shaking my clenching fists at my mother. "God damn you, then!” I shouted. “If you're going to do this, then fuck you! Just fuck you!"

With that something horrible turned inside my chest, chuckling to itself, clawing to get out; its acids churning in my stomach, bubbling into my eyes, throat and nose. For a moment I went quite mad and reached out to open my mother’s eyes. How could she not see me then? How could she not know me then? But she was no longer there, and never would be again.

In absolute terror I became breathless. I could not breathe. I felt as though I was drowning in my own sorrows. Then, suddenly, shocking myself, I lashed out in a terrible rage and slap my mother fully in the face! “I hate you!” I shouted. I wanted to kill her! I wanted to, I wanted to...! But there was nothing left to do.

In my confusion the world closed in on me and I found myself as alone on this earth as my mother would be in her coffin. My head and heart became heavy, as though molten lead had been poured into my veins. Everything began to press down and in on me. My mother was gone and I was forced to accept it and move on, alone. Finally, I reached my breaking point and lay my head and my hands squarely on my mother’s breasts and wept.

Returning to the table at that point was an impossible task. Everyone would know my secrets, where I had gone, and what I has said and done. Instead, I fled to my room where I lay down with the Beast, allowing its numbing warmth and darkness to envelope me. Mercifully, the boy who fell asleep that day never woke.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34266978)

I graduated with a 3.64 GPA (without studying, solely on assigned papers and tests) from an Ivy League college (and several others), built corporations, traveled the world and made and lost millions of dollars, many times over. You are never down until you are out. Never give in or give up, and never ever quit anything.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34266984)

When my father learned about it late the next evening he walked into my bedroom, turned on the light, and ordered me to get out of bed. He asked me if I had done what I had done, and I started with some lame excuse when he slapped me across the face so hard my teeth rattled and my ears rang.

Then my father left my room without saying another thing, taking time to turn out my light. I stood alone in the darkness for a few minutes trying to take in all that just happened and how I felt about it. In the end I was proud of my father and loved him even more because he had let me off the hook with with my sister, who might have killed me. That single slap had also made of me a better person. I was still a shifty little bastard, but never again embarrassed my father or our family, and I never again got caught for any of my BS.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267038)

I was there for several weeks looking for a beach house when there was a knock on the door. It was Larry, carrying 3 sweating Antartica beers by their necks in one hand and 2 Caipirinhas in the other. We sat on the balcony of my suit while we drank, he his beers and me, two-fist-ed, my drinks.

An hour later my friend left, but in the doorway he turned back and mentioned that there was a girl who worked in the hotel, “the assistant manger or something,” he said who wanted to ask me a favor. I wanted to know what it was, but he simply didn’t know, but gave me her name.

The next day I called the girl, her name was Solange, and asked how I could help her. She invited me for drinks, but I told her there was no need for that and asked her to simply tell what she needed. She was insistent on seeing me and I agreed that she could drop by for a talk and that I would do what I could to help her with whatever her problem was.

Solange arrived after she got off work about 8 pm. She was an attractive girl in a very ordinary sort of way, and in her late twenties. l had had hundreds of Brasileras many times more beautiful and a decade younger. During my summers in high school and college when I worked in Brazil on my step-mother’s inherited coffee fazenda, which she left to me when she died, 5 years after this current incident.

As I had a date for dinner at 10:30 pm, I asked her to sit down and come right to the point. She did and in doing so caught me completely by surprise. She wanted me to father her child. I asked her why, but she would’t tell me for some reason. I guessed she had a husband who was impotent. She said no. I asked if she was even married, but she would’t even tell me that.

Well, what followed could not ever be called love, passion, or even sex. But over the next three hours she used me in ways I would not have thought possible, allowing me time for a couple of quick showers and regular hydration. She also allowed me time to call my date for the evening, so I could tell her to skip dinner and meet me at a boîte (nightclub) in Santos as soon as I could get there.

Yes, I have thought about the incident many times and even wandered the beaches at Santos, Bertioga, and Guarujá over the years looking for some tall, blond haired, blue eyed Brasilerio who was on a mission to find his father. It also hindered my lifestyle, because I never again slept with any Brasilera born after 1980.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267084)

Both psychiatrist and lawyers, several institutions (colleges, universities, and think tanks) as well as law enforcement and intelligence agencies the world over. All have tried and failed to put me down or away.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267122)

The trouble with this quid pro quo arrangement was that my guests often forgot or misplaced their keys and had to apply their DAME (Defense Against Methods of Entry) and DASE (Defense Against Surreptitious Entry) skills to access my home. To make certain that this was the case, and nothing more, I rose, put on a bathrobe and moved out onto the upstairs balcony which allowed me to peer down into first floor foyer, main dining room and the rear entrance from the small garden at the back of the house.

The curtains to the patio were closed, but in the bright light of a full moon I could clearly see a short, dark figure working furtively at a lower corner of the large sliding glass door. After “bumping” the lock (a little known technique at the time) he moved quickly, lifting and offsetting the heavy glass door from its frame then, with a speed and strength I would not have thought possible, the intruder forced the guard block to one side and lifted the entire door from its track, and placing it quietly against the outside wall before entering. This proved effective, but was not in accord with any training I had ever received.

As the shear curtains were parted I noticed something large and heavy in one of the man’s gloved hands. It looked like he was carrying a length of pipe as a weapon. Alarmed I stepped back into the shadows so that I could observe his actions without him seeing me. As if familiar with the layout of the house the intruder moved quickly to the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor and cautiously began to ascend. It was then that I realized that he was armed, not with a pipe, but a large caliber suppressed pistol looking very much like Second World War, MK II Welrod. The thought of such an anachronism in that particular place and particular time startled me for a moment, but I quickly got my bearings and prepared to do battle.

As stealthily as possible I backed into my bedroom, closing the door behind me, but immediately realized that I had made a potentially fatal mistake. All of my firearms were locked in a small gun safe hidden in my kitchen pantry at the opposite end of the hallway and the man was already making his way quietly up the third floor stairs. Inadvertently I had backed myself into a corner, where I now had no ready means of defense. Looking desperately for something with which to arm myself, I found myself limited to a selection of Civil War relics my father had given me when I was a boy that now hung as decoration on the wall of my bedroom.

On hearing the stranger making his way down the hallway, I removed a lean, mean Spencer Riffle bayonet from its wall mount and quietly settled down by the hinges of the door. Placing the tips of the fingers of my left hand against the knob to forewarn of the attack, I awaited the approaching confrontation. Then I began to tremble, not so much from fear as from a sudden rush of adrenaline. It was only then that I considered the inescapable possibility that, after everything I had been through, that I might actually have to kill someone with my own two hands. I had been trained to do just that, but the very idea of it now seemed strange.

Thus far the intruder’s action had been totally predictable. I was fairly certain his next move would be to enter my room and move quickly toward my bed, hoping to incapacitate if not kill me with his first shot. If he was in fact carrying a Welrod he had six to eight rounds, but would have to activate the bolt each time, a clumsy maneuver that would make him vulnerable between shots. It was my intent to close with him quickly after the first round and do as much damage to him as I could.

Suddenly the door knob began to turn and I crouched lower, bracing myself like a sprinter in his blocks, loading my legs to spring. But rather than rush my bed, the assassin stood still in the open doorway, calmly raised and aimed his weapon then fired. The sound was like that of a heavy book being closed and I could immediately taste and smell the bitter, acidy effects of burnt gunpowder and feel the hot gasses brush past my face. The next thing I heard was the spent cartridge striking the floor and the bolt being opened to seating a new round. I knew the man was confident, comfortable with his work and totally familiar and skilled with his weapon.

At that point it was to my disadvantage to allow the man to gain distance, so before he stepped forward toward the bed for a coup de grace, I lunged upward and forward. Not knowing anything of the courtesies of killing, I threw left arm over his left shoulder and got him in a cross chest grab then rotated right and threw my full weight behind the bayonet, driving it in just below his right rib cage while angling it upward with my wrist in the direction of his heart. Finally, I slammed bayonet home with my right knee, driving it home.

Reflexively, my adversary relaxed his grip on his pistol and it fell to the floor, while his right elbow was drawn sharply down in a futile attempt to dislodge the blade. In doing so he only managed to lever the tip upward, scoring a terrible wound through his chest and all but insuring his own death. Even so, I remained wary, taking great care to maintain control over the man until he was no longer a threat.

As soon as he was fully aware of his predicament he relaxed and I took that opportunity to kick the fallen firearm across the hardwood floor where it arrived with a thump against a distant wall. Then, I swept his legs from under him with my left leg while rotating both of us to the right, causing both of us to go over backward with him lying up-side-down on top of me. . This way he had no leverage with the floor. In that way I locked my would-be killer up in a four limb death grip and waited for him to bleed out and die.

Training in Powder Springs had taught me that such control was absolutely vital, especially in a confined area. A dying man can still be very dangerous and is easily capable of retaliating until shock or massive blood loss carries all options away.

In falling down I found myself twisted around in such a way that I was staring at the man’s face in profile. Holding him in this obscene embrace, I watched him as he passed from a world of hard learned lessons and dark secrets into the ugly heart of the beast. And as I watched, he slipped, by stages, through his own tiny cosmos, on a journey so lonely and mesmerizing that it came to mark my own hopes and my darkest fears. Horrible as it was, my predator became prey and I found it impossible to turn away. I wanted to know and retain the truth of this terrible act that I knew even then would cast a shadow over me for untold years.

There was anger at first as the man struggled hopefully against the inevitable, but his thrashing about only worsened his condition and hastened his end. And as his strength finally failed he ceased to resist and slowly sank into a state of absolute resignation. I watched all of this with a quiet sadness that mirrored his and I recognized in his resignation a face I had seen in a hundred mirrors, in a score of cities around the world.

But forgotten lessons can kill! I never heard the gravity knife come free of his boot, or the snap of blade as it seated itself. One moment I was lost in dark contemplation, the next death rose up and was driving hard at my throat. Fortunately my adversary was too far gone to see his plan through and his thrust gave way and fading in a slow arc that finally came to rest, point first in the peg and grooved floor. A simple sweep of my elbow snapped the blade in two and allowed my adversary to quietly slip away.

Then something new crept into my foe’s face; an emptiness, a vacant stare, a paleness verging on absolute surrender. It was only then that I recognized him as a counterpoint to my own ambitions, what I might be or become in the end: at once vanquished and victor. Then the corpse became heavy in my arms, sagging and sinking fully to the floor. The weight and pain of his dying were finally more than I could bare and my eyes filled with tears that blinded me to his pain, and to mine. Even then I held my enemy close, comforting and protecting him , I suppose, until his visceral odors brought me back and I finally pulled free, breaking a chain tens of thousands of generations long.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267167)

Because it is obviously not nearly so violent or dangerous as the left’s Antifa, which has been declared a domestic terrorist group. There is a difference between a bunch of hillbillies and rednecks with guns and an organized group of thugs who attack people and burn down buildings randomly and at will.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267205)

https://qph.ec.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-5bc90442c93b445680e9f9070f3e449f-c

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267318)

Sturgis served as a body guard for Fidel during his early Sierra Maestra days and instructed Che in guerrilla warfare. Arguably, he knew more about the 2 Cuban leaders than anyone else, but Felix Rodriguez. Castro was jealous of Che’s rivaling popularity in Cuba and financed his expedition into Bolivia to foment revolution, then cut him off at the behest of the Soviets who he had repeatedly embarrassed), betrayed and abandoned him. Che was always a Maoist.

The denouement came when the the Bolivians turned Che over to Felix, who had a personal score to settle with one of the worst homicidal psychopaths (Che) of the 20th Century.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267338)

I work on a solution many years ago and arrived at a way and means that is both practical and inexpensive. I thought to take the idea to DARPA, but got side-tract with the practicalities of life. Even with Irma breathing down our necks I didn’t think to resurrect my designs. And had I, the application would have had to take place a week or ten days ago.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267372)

The next best thing you can have going for you is facial bone structure. People may like the Latin look or Nordic look, or a particular color of eyes, but there are classical characteristics that can give you some advantage if you happen to be lucky enough to be born with them. A strong, somewhat squared face with a prominent brow and slightly jutting jaw is an example. (see samples below).

There is also social positioning. Always try to sit or stand at the center of any group you are with. This will present you as a leader and all conversation and deference will seem to be directed at you, marking you as important and a leader. Either be silent (aloof) of converse evenly both left and right to heighten this impression (command). In conversation try to remain terse, glib and subtly humorous. Do not move around a lot or fix your attention on any one person.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267379)

Immediately I took off my Madras sports jacket and tied the sleeves around her waist to mute the problem. But her god damned horse won the race and she went ballistic because she had won more than $1,000 on a horse that had absolutely no reason to have won. So there I was trying to control her uncontrollable zeal while also trying to explain the situation. In fact she kept hitting me about the head and shoulders with her white leather Burberry clutch purse all the way to our car.

Even then, she wouldn’t leave until I convinced her she could collect her winnings the following day.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267522)

It wasn’t that I was any faster of smarter, but because I was trained. I didn’t move fast, because both would have shot me reflexively. But by moving slowly in multiple directions they started to think and that slowed them down. I had nothing to lose, because they had already made clear that they were there to rob and to kill me.

I was taught to talk as long as it is effective and to never pull my weapon until I knew exactly what the situation was or the talking stopped. In my entire life I never pulled a gun on anyone to hold or threaten them. Every time I drew I immediately killed someone. It is sort of a Samarai thing. “If you draw your sword, it is dishonorable to re-sheath the blade until it is bloodied.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267553)

That’s been exactly my schedule for almost half a century and I have had the best life ever.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267567)

The problem with most people and the lives they lead is that they do mind. They care what their parents, family, friends, associates and even their bar tenders think of them. They mind. I don’t. I know exactly who and what I am and what I’ve done. And that is the only thing that matters in my world, my life, my reality and my existence. Why should I mind or give one good god damn what some other person who knows nothing at all of them self mind or care about me?

Heaven or hell, I don’t mind!

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267697)

Once safely settled in, my father informed my sister and me that he was going to spend the remainder of the day visiting with old friends at the law firm where he began his career. My sister went along, but I opted to remain behind in the hope of getting some much needed rest.

In spite of the comfortable size and appointments of our accommodations, I found the arrangements somewhat claustrophobic after so many days out on the open sea. The congestion of luggage in the sitting room added to the problem, but it was also a sense of something unseen in the room that finally drove me out of a window and onto a ledge. There the light and fresh air finally lessened the pressure in my head and on my heart. For a time it was enough just lean back against the warm outside of the building, listening to the screech and wail of the city drifting up from far below, but I actually fell asleep.

Seconds, minutes or perhaps hours later someone knocked on the apartment door. I jerked suddenly and in my mind let go of my sister's hand, watching in horror as she spun away, fading slowly into the darkness of the canyon below. In my desire to save her, I reached out too far and almost fell to my death.

Shaking myself awake I heard a woman's voice call out, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

At first I thought it was my sister, calling up to me, but I soon accepted the fact that the voice may have been in my own mind. It was only then that I realized the danger I was in.

Moving carefully, I slid on my bottom across the ledge toward the window, intending to return to the comfort and safety within, but on reaching for the sill I discovered that I had not moved at all, but was for some reason frozen in place.

My first reaction was unbridled fear. A fall from such a height would certainly have killed me, but that seemed the least of my momentary concerns. The same instincts that save monkeys as they slept in trees had spared my life, but now I found myself unable to move. To make certain I was not simply suffering from cramps, after sitting too long on cold cement, I ran my hands along my arms and legs, but found nothing amiss with my limbs.

In the absence of help, I tried to coordinate my body for a final effort at self rescue, but was seized by the odd thought that the reconstitution of my bodily parts might bring about a critical mass and permanently split me in two. In trying to deal with these convoluted thoughts, I found myself pressing even harder against the wall.

“Well, God damn!” I said aloud. “What’s this all about?”

“Contemplating a hit on Broadway?” the internal voice asked, almost causing me to take the leap. Immediately I heard laughter, but it was not my own.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked in a panic, my voice trembling so badly that no one could have understood me had they heard.

“Yes, you!” the voice whispered in my ear.

No sooner had my auditory fantasy faded away, icy fingers seemed to reach out from the wall and coax me toward the edge. I tried to fight the sensation, but it had no shape or form. The very thought of it, even now, causes my heart to tremble.

“Who the hell are you?” I shouted in desperation. “And where?” The questions were rhetorical, of course, but allowed me a moment to regain my wits, balance and some semblance of self control. Somewhere along the way the yellow brick road I hoped to happen on common. I knew in my mind that ventriloquist and their dummy can not speak at the very same time.

As if to contradict me, the voice interrupted my thoughts. “A hit on Broadway!” it said. A moment later it broke into a hysterical laugh as if it gotten its own joke.

“Whoa!” I cried aloud, pressing myself ever harder against the wall. “That's a long way down and few blocks over.”

Then I recognized something familiar in the voice, not so much in its mocking manner, but in its pitch and tone. Hidden somewhere beneath its surface was the sound of the wind blowing a scream back in my face.

Suddenly the knocking inside began again and I was reminded that my horrors had taken place in a moment’s time.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice called out a second time. “Is anyone here?”

The question floated around me and I looked toward the window where something was moving behind the curtain.

I wanted to answer, I wanted to cry out for help, but I didn’t know which of the voices would reply. Instead, I began to tap the crystal of my wristwatch against the ledge, breaking it in the process and causing the back of my hand to bleed.

Cocking my head against the wall, I listened for some familiar sound, but everything had gone quite still.

“Hello?” I ventured without caution, but there was no one there.

Like me, the maid was confused, and frightened by the unseen. The idea that someone was outside the window simply made no sense to her. She only approached to close the drapes, but on seeing my legs protruding into her field of view she stuck her head out and asked, “Are you crazy?”

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t know, but the gravity of my situation sank in and her concern was immediately reflected in her face. Very sensibly she tried to conceal her fear, but her efforts were largely in vain.

“Are you all right, sir?” she asked, more softly. “Can I help you?”

For a moment I sat looking at the young, black woman without responding, content at first that I was not alone.

Nearly sightless now from staring too long into the abyss, I began to feel my way along the ledge. “I hope I don't look half as frightened as you do,” I said, trying to raise the young woman’s spirits, as well as mine. “I think I’m all right now, but would you please remove anything near the sill?”

The maid quickly gathered up everything and anything that might hinder my safe and sane return to my room then stepped back, out of the way. This done, she called out to me in a frail voice. “It's all right now you can come in, sir.”

Quickly, I summoned what little reserves I had left and stood up, tottering for a moment before lurching forward toward the opening in the wall. It was not the smartest way to move, but time and luck were quickly running out on me and I had little energy left to negotiate a safe return.

Inside the apartment I stood crimson faced before the terrified maid, who suddenly turned and fled the room.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267610)

It took me a decade before that to master WILDs. My time on the HTP began with stays lasting seconds, which became minutes, and now seem to have maxed at about a dream cycle (80–100 minutes) of fully conscious dark sleep. The HTP is the closest I have ever come to anything “super natural.” In this case it is a good term. The super-conscious state encompasses the most natural universal experiences I have ever had.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267941)

https://qph.ec.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-205c6b54e4b3b654743682ccd28dff2d

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34267971)

It would depend entirely on who the stranger was: any child (all of mine are grown); a pregnant woman; someone I knew to be valuable to society (yes, especially Donald Trump); someone I knew had a family to care for and about them; but not just some random little old lady or man. I know who I am and what I am capable of and that is far more valuable than most of the 9 to 5 likable lugs I know.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=3739672&forum_id=2#34268356)