Dear Fellow Literary Masochists:
Memoir is for the birds. Suicidal, narcissistic birds. My dreams dead and gone, I have boarded the Trans-Mongolian express with my faithful companions, in hopes of escaping myself entirely. Their enthusiasm for train travel, however, is excruciating. Barbie waves at absolutely everyone. And if one more person calls me Ken, I'll be forced to set myself on fire. That grinning, stiff-jointed fool wouldn't know good writing if it came molded onto his ass.
Speaking of which, after my fruitless journey into non-fiction, during which I spent long hours staring at my own reflection, I see that I have been mercilessly tattooed with the names of my most unstable professors. Sherry Simpson? Brenda Miller? Stephen Corey? What madness possessed these fiends to turn their pens on me? No matter.
I'm going to go hang precariously over the rail of the caboose. Barbie can damn well wave to my corpse.
With reluctant humility,
Naked Man
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