It is like the flowers falling at Spring's end,

Confused, whirled in a tangle.

What is the use of talking, and there is no end of talking,

There is no end of things in the heart.

I call in the boy,

Have him sit on his knees here

To seal this,

And I send it a thousand miles, thinking.

- Ezra Pound, Cathay: "Exile's Letter"

Age: I don't act it.

Sex: See Below.

Location: Yeah, right.

The few. The proud. The brave?

Male. Fanfiction. Writers.

We kick butt. We endorse weird pairings, have unecessary amounts of death in our stories, and generally have a lower reviews - to - hits and higher words - per - story ratio than our female compatriots. We work harder for less pay and make shockingly (shockingly!) chauvanistic generalizations about women and ourselves. We are, in the David Barry sense, Guys, not Men. The fact that we believe our Y chromosome makes us different is evidence enough for the arrogance of our thought. We are, curiously enough, oftentimes the victims of "vicious computer viruses" and "unprecendent harddrive erasures," a by-product of our shameless propensity to lie about the alacrity of our update times. We write fanfics to avoid doing homework and read fanfics to avoid writing them, pursuing the extenuating muse of inspiration. We are completely, utterly, (convinced that we're) awesome.