Hey hey hey, it's my writing journal! Fantastic! Spectacular! I'll take it! I'll take twelve!
I write in here every day. Don't ask me why; it's a long and complicated story about my expectations of a writer with deep-seated stories I heard as a child and a boy with an unhealthy addiction to his habits. If you're confused or deluged, check out my real site for a slower pace and writings with a little more thought behind them. Seriously, everything in here is written in a haze of half-sleep and black coffee.
In no particular order I am:
a time-traveling Modernist;
a zombie hunter for hire;
published in a handful of magazines;
a carnivorous raider of fridges;
a 20th level Elementalist named Lily;
trash cinema on bargain-bin celluoid;
totally outliving the apocalypse;
100% redhead, 0% Irish;
collecting enough old paperbacks to build a castle;
still waiting for a god damn jetpack;
a man in a big rubber kaiju suit;
only good for useless trivia and never real facts;
not responsible for any B-movie quippage;
a coiner of portmanteaus and rampager of grammar;
run entirely on black coffee, PG Tips, craft beer, and whiskey;
sometimes a stylish bastard;
too musically eclectic to begin;
old enough to remember pixels;
filled with an urge to climb to the roof of every building;
11 on the nerd meter;
making it to space one day;
really glad I'm not dead.
If you think we should be friends (and we probably should, I bet you're incredible), let me know. Or we can be friends who never acknowledge each other. That's cool too.
A note on commenting: I hail from that age of internet where it was just blocky green text and child molesters. The art of lurking is in my blood, you see. See above with the remark of ingrained habits. So don't get pissy about me never commenting because that makes me sad. I'm reading, I promise. On the flip side, I won't get pissy if you never comment either. Just read. That's really all any writer wants. At least, it's what this one wants.