Who, What, When, Why

I suppose it is only appropriate that I christen this space with something akin to an introduction.  Some flagrant waving about in the void concerning who I am and why I feel people should listen to me, as if that is not the most vomit-inducing arrogance to float down my fingers.  Thus in efforts to introduce myself as little as politely possible, I resort to the old-time questions following the occurrence of criminality, if only to spare the readers who are certainly not here the full brunt of my self-flagellation.  That all goes on Twitter, if I could be arsed to say something more than nothing.

Who

A young woman who self-identifies as a writer before all else, but could be better identified as a writhing pile of self-loathing and nonsensical blathering who, as she is quickly finding, is desperately addicted to the services of a spellchecker.  At least it’s a little bit better than whoring.  Her name is Rachael and she makes more mistakes than good choices, but she hopes the withering sarcasm aimed at herself makes her the least bit entertaining to read.

She is the car crash you look at to feel comforted by your own mortality.  It’s the least she can do.

When not writing and reading the works of dead men, or wrestling with another panic attack for stupid reasons, she plays video games and sleeps.  All of these topics may be addressed in the posts ahead.  She’s sure it will be riveting and not completely horrifying.

She is also a Sagittarius.

What

This is an attempt to write in a productive manner, or at least make it a daily occurrence, about whatever may occur to her.  The range of topics may vary from slightly to widely, out past Pluto and skimming over the swirl of dark holes.  There may be attempts at organization at the right side of this blistering pile of word vomit, but she cautions that these are horrible attempts that are hobbled by WordPress being far more constricted for free users than she recalls.

When

Starting Thursday, August 7th, 2014, she will be writing daily about whatever occurs to her.  However long this lasts is a question written in fat-clogged arteries and the critical ability to give a shit.

Why

If she knew the answer to that, she would certainly share it.  As it is, she can only shrug and wish that you enjoy the ride to wherever this is going.

Blather On Right Back

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