So, I decided to delve into the depths of my humility and have written one for myself.
Savannah Woods was born on a magical night when ponies and rainbows showered love upon the grumpy people of Worcestershire. Yes, ponies shower love. With a shower head. Wear a cap, or you might get too much love in your hair.
Ahem.
As I was saying, it was a magical night, and it had absolutely nothing to do with Savannah's birth, but it was cool.
When she was six she ate a leaf for fun, and her dad made her drink ipecac syrup and she puked cocoa pebbles all over the floor.
Later she ate a leaf for the sake of eating, but that was okay because it was lettuce.
You know, most people don't like iceberg lettuce, but I find it refreshing. Much like the Titanic. Like a biiiiiig gulp of water.
Right. I'm writing a bio here.
Anywho, Savannah now lives in a small hut in the Alps (those are a series of small pools in Russia) and edits remotely via goat-messages. If she's late for a deadline she'll sing an incantation by the alp-pools until sirens come out and beg her to stop and swear on their little-mermaid-esque voices that if she'll tie her vocal chords in a knot, they'll convince whichever lord of time is in charge of Russian pools to hold back time until she's finished her project.
And that is why she was named after a grassland in Africa.
