Rough draft shit brainstorming word vomit blah blah blah. The only way to start writing is to start writing, and all that. If I sit here and try to think of perfect sentences or what to include and what not to include, whether to write the truth or embellish it, the whole effort is wasted. Maybe I'll go back and edit everything once I'm done, if I'm ever actually done. Maybe I won't edit it, and whatever unfortunate little creature winds up with this file in their hands will have the honors of interpreting the disordered thought process of one sick fuck- yours truly~

I always type with that stupid squiggle when I'm trying to seem pleasant. I don't know why, because I barely ever say pleasant things. Exclamation points are so campy though! See? Nobody says actual sentences with that much passion unless they're in someone's bed, trying to get in someone's bed, or trying to get as far away from them as possible. I'll try to refrain from using both the squiggle and the exclamation points, though I'm bound to slip up somewhere.

I don't know why I'm typing this in the first place, anyway. It's a story that doesn't matter, but then again, is there such a thing as a story that does? In the bigger scheme of things, the biggest, the cosmos- nothing about a single life is important. The universe is a cold and uncaring place, and one day it will collapse in on itself and start something new, and on and on and on until it's all just scrambled eggs. That doesn't make sense, but maybe that's the point. I don't know, and I don't think I care. I mean, I guess some part of me has to care about something to some extent that's strong enough to pull me to a keyboard. If some part of all that's happened means enough for me to deem it worthy of wasting my time transcribing for some unknown person, maybe it does matter.

Of course, there's the possibility that I'm just well and truly insane. Find comfort in that, if you'd like.

I know I would.

For everyone who thinks a story has to be told from the beginning, I'd like to invite you to kiss my ass. A logical story, sometimes, relies on chronological retelling. Juvenile fiction, nearly always. But reality is messy. The only way to tell a real story is to tell it the way that matters.

I'm trying to figure out which way that is, so bare with me. And no, that's not a typo.

Bear with me and I'll elaborate when I feel like it. Bare with me and I'll bare myself-

uncover, reveal; who's the real bad guy at the end of the book; was the hero wrong all along; was there even a hero to begin with; and is this narrator a reliable source?

I don't trust him myself, but I assure you, he's got a point to make, if you can tolerate him long enough to weasel it out. Anyway.

At least one other person out there somewhere in the world (at the time of writing, who knows for how long after) knows this story, or at least their own version of it. If I had to make a bet, I'd wager that it might have even been passed on once or twice. Hell, maybe one day I'll show up as a character in someone else's story, and it won't even be because I knew them, but because they knew about me. It sounds so romantic- until I remind myself this is more of a horror-tragedy than a classical drama.

I'd introduce myself, but that's another story telling device that I've never liked. You'll know who I am at some point, if we make it that far. You'll know where I came from, sort of. You'll know what I did, if I tell the truth, everything I didn't do, if I feel humble, and you might figure out why, if you're at least halfway intelligent. There's no reason for me to sit down and spell it all out for you, even if my purpose for writing this is supposedly to spill everything out on a page and relieve some burden. It wouldn't be therapeutic that way, and definitely not enjoyable to read.

Not that I expect anyone to enjoy this. I'm aiming a bit more for intrigue, though you'll be the judge of that in the end. You'll either read or you won't, and I'll never know, so if this is just another failing grade, so be it. Stop reading right now, delete your browser history, and forget you even made it this far down the page. You won't hurt my feelings. Pinky swear~

If your interest is at all piqued, though.. Feel free to continue. Turn back when you're tired, or go on and see where the trail lets out. I won't be waiting for you on the other end.