She’s got what I like to call ‘Lady Guinevere’ hair. It’s beautifully long and streaked with gold. She flatly refuses that it looks blonde. No one can ever tell what color her eyes are, since there are so many hues jam-packed in there that you can’t separate them. I gave up a long time ago trying to assign a specific color.

Mania and undying love for the classical guitar has given her lethal claws; how she should clip them is an ongoing argument that I’ll probably never win, dang it. She can be loving and considerate, but also illogical. She won’t say, “I’ll beat up ‘so and so’ for you.” She’s the type of person who’d ‘scare so and so’ into an early grave by just looking at them funny.

She’s a mix of art history and archaeology, and curiously resistant to gory and gruesome sights. Where you’d take the normal-looking path, she’ll go down the “Horror Show” road without regrets.

She’s a bittersweet cocktail that you have to learn to love.

She’s my sister and I wouldn’t trade her for anyone else in the world.