normandie rawlins was born on the sidewalk in front of doug weston’s troubadour while waiting for scalped tickets to a rilo kiley acoustic show (back when friendster knew what was up). she remembers, in a past life, being obsessed with vhs tapes, nickelodeon and anything that related to being ten years old in the mid-1990s so much so that most of her current life is an awkward, angry reflection of the previous karate kid-obsessed one. now, she’s a little bit of college student and a whole lot of writer who resents rss feeds and hacks out most of her words on a ‘58 portable underwood bought in the back room of a thrift store. she would sell her soul for the perfect nut graph (or a room full of used books and no sense of time) but, ultimately, hopes to fly to hawaii with a beach chair backpack full of bathing suits and never be heard from again.
