My full name is Worthington Peter Miner III. The name Worthington has grown on me; however, I have the cliché apprehension of becoming my loving father. As most know, for I speak of it too often, I was born in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I grew up on a mixed Irish, and Jewish block. Most of the Irish are old crazy Catholics, descending from diseased swamp people who fled the island in exile during the Potato Famine. These elderly lot mostly discuss their diverse views on immigration, various wars, and the shared shock that we as people had potatoes for hundreds of years, and never managed to conjure potato based Vodka. The Jews of the block mostly stick to the same two stories regarding their respective origins. Those of Eastern-European descent say that their forefathers fled the Czar when he appeared to have their numbers. Others, of German descent, say that they fled the fatherland during the 1930s, for obvious reasons. I've never liked my voice. My cynicism leaves my work to rot until it reeks of sarcasm and disrespect. This observation reminds me of (what I believe to be) the great revelation of Martin Luther. That human beings will forever be sinful in thought, and therefore the only way to achieve purity is through our action. I paraphrase of course, but wait... this is off topic. Well it brings to mind my pre-confirmation days at the ever deteriorating church of St. Michaels. So I guess in that sense it is relevant to me. Those of you who would guess this to be a poor example of a brain dump are most definitely correct. However, even if I was to take more time with this response I know I could not answer it. The Ancient Greeks say know thyself, but I truly do not. I only know where, and when I am. It's 10:30, I'm in my room, and I just got back from a soccer game. I suppose the most fitting thing to say is good evening, or goodnight. I prefer the latter, good night.