Hiya. I feel very self-conscious. It occurs to me that baring my soul semi-publicly like this is probably going to screw me up in more ways than I can even imagine. For the first time, the Biographers could actually exist. Geez. This is exactly what I mean. I read "The Biographers" and I recognize that it's an old private joke I've had for years. You (and for the first time there actually IS a "you") are probably wondering exactly how insane I am, whether I live close enough to you to actually come in contact with you, and hoping to (Insert Deity of Choice Here) that I haven't yet managed to convince anyone to sell me any explosives.
But I probably shouldn't be talking directly to you like this at all. ("Whups! That wasn't very rational, was it???"--Barry) I'm pretty sure that in theory, I'm supposed to forget that damn near anyone could stumble across this page, and just pretend that this is a private record of my daily thoughts. That's hard, though. I feel compelled to explain all my neuroses, including my delusion that my every word will indeed now be read by thousands, because for all I know, my every word could be read by thousands.
(I'm imagining hundreds of people writing to me tomorrow. They'll all tell me to chill the fook out, no one is watching me.)
So, since I can't get rid of the image of you, I'd like to take this opportunity to explain myself directly to you. Specifically, I'm really worried about that "Biographers" crack up there. I'm afraid that I've tainted your entire impression of me, by casually confessing that I believe thousands of people are deeply interested in my personal habits. It's not like that all.
See, a long time ago, I jokingly wrote a journal entry about what my Biographers were going to have to say about my day-to-day life when I became wildly famous. This flight of purest fancy eventually led to the Biographers discovering my journal, and writing several dozen doctoral theses about exactly how screwed up my private writings were. It was all very droll and amusing, and included lots of stuff like the Biographers commenting about how Our Beloved Author used to imagine her every written word was going to be read by thousands of people. Although I often refer to the Biographers, rest assured, I do indeed know they are a figment of my imagination. (or...at least they used to be...) No no no. Stop that. This is the part where we try to convince them we're not crazy. BRING ME THE SEVEN CABBAGES OF PRINCE PLUTONIUM!! Ahem. Yes.
Although the Biographers are the most disturbing manefestation, I do have lots of other little quirks in my writing style. I throw seemingly random quotes into sentences. The best way to explain them is that to me, none of them are random. Maybe you had to be there. (Barry is a character in "The Tick" comic books. For reasons far too complex to get into here, he is quite quite insane. There's this one panel showing Barry sitting naked at the dinner table with a completely deranged expression on his face. There is a salad fork sticking into his arm. He's saying "Whups. Heh. That's not rational, is it?" That struck me as just unbearably funny. For a while, it was my catch phrase every time I realized I was acting like a freak. It seemed appropriate up there, so I slipped it in. And now you know.) Also, I tend to write out conversations with myself more often than is probably necessary.
The reason I'm telling you all this is that I developed these ideosyncracies (and possibly dozens of others) during years of writing a journal that no one read but me. It may take me a while to get used to having a real audience. Perhaps I'll cling to them stubbornly, hoping to build a reputation. What I'm trying to say is, if you read something here that makes no sense to you, ignore it. It just means that I'm off chasing some sort of groove thing, and I'll get back to the point as soon as I can.