A terribly scary thing has happened. More than ten people have read something I wrote. My immediate feeling was to delete this entire profile. It's way easier to write when you don't think anyone will ever read it.
Wait a minute...are you reading this? Oh god no. Oh dear. This is all wrong.
My mind drifts somewhere in the liminal space between thought and action. When the blackout ends, I find myself holding digital lighter fluid, and my Medium smells of gas. Maybe I was acting a bit rash, here. Maybe it's okay if people read my work?
I put down the lighter fluid. I don't even know where it came from, I don't have a grill. Now that it is in my hands, I'm not even sure where to store it? The garage? Under the sink? Should I simply leave it here and one day it will vanish like it came?
I'd like to carry this joke on further, but maybe I should give you some more solid ground? I like metanarrative deconstructions that flirt with horror and define what it is to be human. Things like JohnDiesattheEndorHouseofLeaves. Also general surrealism deconstruction like Pratchett.
I've started to shift from strict essay, article, analysis pieces into something narratively tied into something larger. If you stick with me, I can't assure you of anything, except it'll be a ride.