Ellen was pieced together from scuffed shoes and breadcrumbs. Her body is powered by twelve and a half rodents, working tirelessly on miniature treadmills lodged in her ribcage. Currently on her twenty-sixth nose, Ellen regrets cutting off the previous twenty-five, despite her face. To pay for her apartment (in a cumulonimbus cloud just above a paper town in Eastern West Virginia), Ellen rents out space in her temporal lobe. She also uses the fluid that seeps from her gums and kneecaps to make herbal soaps which she sells to hobos and stay-at-home mothers. She is slowly being engulfed by quicksand, and uses this experience to make motivational speeches across America. In her spare time, Ellen enjoys reading unwritten poetry and being embalmed.