An Artist. I started drawing on the furniture at a tender age and my mom thought I was an artist, so she kept me supplied with anything and everything so as to let my talent bloom. In High School I had enough leisure time to paint these.
Then I continued majoring in Art in college. I don't have diddly squat to show for those years, since most of my work then were assignments that made for weird things to put on your wall, they were more like exercises. They were ever so much more painterly than the high school stuff though. I had potential, but I just was too distracted to invest what I needed to invest of myself to become a true artist. Eventually I realized that if I planned to ever graduate and get a job, I'd better study something different. I tried to keep painting, but the truth be known, it was too hard to concentrate on my new major, my social life, my work, and art. The artist fizzled and died. Plop! All that parental encouragement and resources amounted to ??? I have created very very few pieces of art since then. I look at these and wonder that I am the same person that did those. I remember doing them, but it seems like something that happened in a galaxy far, far away. I never developed that talent any further, I put it on a shelf, hoping to pick up some other day, when I'm a grandma?