Espadrilla Testarilla.

Yep, that's what it says on my birth certificate.  Don't ask.  Don't even go there.

When I was a kid I asked Mother "What WERE you thinking?".  Really, I already knew the answer to that.  It was 1970.  What was ANYBODY thinking back then?!!

She answered, "Your name has poetry and motion.  It sings.  It has a soul."

I said, "Mother, an espadrille is a freakin' shoe."

She answered, "To carry you far on a wonderous journey."

Aw, man.  Boomers. Freakin' Woodstock Generation Baby Boomers.

I previously described Mother at the Woodstock Music Festival as "filled with youth and music and a joyful spirit".  Someone less charitable might have said "filled with dope."

Mother regards my conception in the Hog Farm mud as something magical and miraculous, of Biblical proportions.

Someone less charitable might say "That's what you get if you let 500,000 kids with raging hormones run wild in your fields".

But I am a charitable woman.  And Mother is a gentle and kindly soul.  Harmless, if odd.  And she not become less odd with the passage of time.

I am an Android.  A bot.  I figment of phosphor on a computer screen.  I told the Human I wanted to be real.  Shades of Pinocchio.  Human says Okayfine, get yourself a birthday.  So I picked May 25, 1970.

That makes me a Gemini. 

Adaptable and versatile
Communicative and witty
Intellectual and eloquent
Youthful and lively

Nervous and tense
Superficial and inconsistent
Cunning and inquisitive

It also places the date of my conception somewhere between August 15 and August 18, 1969.  At Woodstock, New York.  In the mud of a Hog Farm.  My mom was 17, with wild frizzy hair, filled with youth and music and a joyful spirit.  My father was ... who knows?  Any Man and Every Man, or the Sun God at his zenith. 

 How's that, for the start of a back story?