Listen, I was tempted to just copy and paste the write-up from the home page—because, let’s face it, this is already a lot of copy for a website, and there’s a pretty good chance you won’t even read this. But then I thought, “What about the people who actually do read this?” So, here’s a little extra.

When I was five years old, I went missing for about an hour. Not in a park, or at a mall, it was smack-dab in the middle of a tiny one-bedroom apartment on a warm Christmas Eve in Honolulu. My family looked in every nook and every cranny and found nothing but panic and dread, and were probably thinking that this will probably be re-enacted someday in a television program that ends with my face and a 1-800 number. But then, for reasons that I cant remember, they decided to look in the bedroom closet just one more time.

And there, nestled deep within that fairly shallow closet, they saw a tiny foot sticking out of a moderately sized, cardboard box. For the life of me, I can neither explain or even really remember why I had decided to take a nap in that box at that particular time, but I did, and I closed the flaps.