Born into obscurity in the southernmost (and the most hick) part of the Midwestern United States, Apocrypha Jones aspired to be the new pin-up girl of poetry. Once it was established that she had no talent for verse or titillation, she turned her considerable, almost Scrabble-worthy vocabulary to the important task of elucidating just how fucked the world was, and in what ways.
After feverish study of anti-civ writings, conspiracy theory, bizarre metaphysics, and oddly enough, opera, she arrived at her own perspective — and a need to share this perspective with others.
Apocrypha lives in Houston, which is possibly the worst city in the world for a person who thinks deeply or is even semi-aware of his or her surroundings. She shares a modest (though well-appointed) flat with her man Woodward, who has no discernible online presence to Google, and a wild cat-beast named Winona, who was absolutely not named after the pill-popping/shop-lifting actress.
Also, just for the record, her name ain’t “baby.” It’s Apocrypha — Miss Jones if you’re nasty.
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