My name's Stephy. When I grow up, I'm going to teach typography to eager college students. I'm also going to freelance design on the side. First, I have to finish up my Bachelor's, then it's off to grad school and finding a "real" job. Then, there's that issue of finding reasonably-priced real estate in a big city. I'd like a loft, and I'll make walls out of books and canvas and all sorts of odd things. I so don't plan on growing up.

I write letters to people in my scrawled, girlish handwriting.
I bite my nails.
I compulsively mathematize any numbers I encounter (11 and 19 are my favourite).
I make up words as I need them.
I don't drink, smoke, or do drugs; my vice is typography, though you're certainly welcome to your own.
My grandmother and I do puzzles together all the time.
I thoroughly enjoy really bad jokes, especially if they're a little pretentious or cheesy. Ideally, both.
I'm really bad at miniature golf.
I make jewelry out of acrylic stuff and polymer clay.
Two of my cats are named after literary figures.
I love stripes, polka dots, and seamless patterns.
I bet I can beat you at Candyland.

Bukowski once explained that “an intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way; an artist says a hard thing in a simple way.” A designer’s job, then, is to say things in a frank and unique way – and without even speaking a word. Colors and typefaces are languages on their own. Both of these things surround us, for better or for worse, and if I am to live in a world with messages shouted out from signs and moving parts, I’d rather surround myself with something inspiring and beautiful.

I have the best presents ever.