You've waited in line and paid your fee, so now it's time to see the show. If you're here, you want to know more about me, you clicked here by accident, or you just don't know how the hell to get around my site yet. If you're not in the mood to read, you'll want to skip to the pictures, signified by blackened arrows. If you prefer your pictures in the form of a thousand words, read on and follow the rest of the arrows. You'll be ready for pictures by the time you're there.
The subtlety of an online autobiography is frustrating. How can I make it informative without making myself a target for identity theft? How can I be revealing without slipping myself into a fishbowl, making myself easy prey for all the stalking cats? How do I resist the temptation to embellish yet avoid the pressure of the critical potential eye?
You know that eye. It's the eye that already sees you with suspicion, even if the most it's seen of you is a few pages of a Web site; the eye that reads with dissention just because you have an opinion. Screw the eye. Screw the eye that's attached to some cowardly luser who flames you anonymously just for hating his high school. Screw the eye that can't even see what's right there in front of it. Screw the eye.
The solution to these problems, making any decent Web designer shudder, is a mountain of text like this one. Clearly the more layers in the word sandwich, the more nutritious goodness it contains. Good luck, you thieves, getting your mouths around this humongous gyro. Bon appetit, you hungry stalkers, hope you haven't bitten off more of this stupendous submarine than you can chew. En garde, you cowardly lusers, enjoy this Rubenesque reuben. I doubt you can read, anyway.
Of course, I couldn't actually let myself get away with subjecting everyone else to screens full of unadulterated text. What's a good sandwich with out a little .jpg jelly or .png pickle? If you like the books with more pictures than words, these generous .gifs won't help you. As you can see, they break up the page and refer metaphorically to the topic, at best. Skim on, impatient browser, my life really is about the fishbowl, the bloodshot eye, and the triple-decker BLT (I guess the BLT is pretty relevant; I love a good sandwich). Click that next link, cowardly luser, maybe this page really wasn't about your shitty high school after all. I'm not giving you even the benefit of a stolen copyrighted image to explain why google directed you here. If you really want to know, it's time to make use of that great worldly education you supposedly received.
So now you're hooked, I'm sure. You're perhaps wondering when I'll get around to naming a stalker, a thief, or a high school. Stop the rant, you want to get off. Well, no matter how you choose to interpret that turn of phrase, it is time to turn nonetheless. Take that offramp on I-70, unless you came from a different direction, and slip into a little town called Dayton, Ohio.
Let the identity feast begin.