Alright, where to begin? My line of thinking is like the alphabet city avant garde...so to speak. I'm a horrible stream-of-conscious poet, in a constant state of delirium and black eyeliner and untouchable. I love fever dreams...and dreams in general...it's when we're most honest and vulnerable. Most of my ideas stream like Darwin's drawing from these brief tidbits of lucidity--constantly evolving and ever changing and adapting...but maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. Oh, what am I writing? Let's face it...I never make any sense. Babble, babble, bitch, bitch...

I'm a notorious bad speller, and I'm no Quick Draw Magraw on grammar there either, Magoo. I have horrible taste in music, movies, and campy science fiction novels...but I love them so. I'm a thief, no doubt about it there, alls free and wonderful. Also, I laugh at profanity, especially flipping the bird. Rage in motion.

"I'll sign this with a smiley face...bitches love the smiley face" :-)