My species is a very slow and somewhat broken form of humanoid.
I spend most of my life staring at the harvested souls of dead trees and avidly hallucinating. I’m told that on earth this is called “reading.”
I have worked in libraries for the past 16 years and feel that this has qualified me to be quite an authority on books, or at the very least some sort of obsessed fan. I very much enjoy talking to people about what books they have read and NOTHING ELSE.
I also spend copious amounts of time crafting and cosplaying, attending sci-fi conventions and pretending that I don’t wish everyone in the human race gone.
I also write. Lots.
I suffer from Chronic depression and dysthymia as well as anxiety and the overwhelming sensation that, despite hating people and thinking very poorly of them, I do like them better than myself.
Its some sort of self-image thing.