But I’m not.

Ask me what this is and I’ll tell you something different every time: a memory emporium, a public forum for mischief, a performance art piece, a litany of my life, a literary reality show, my semi-edited consciousness uploaded to the world wide web. An exploration of verisimilitude. A love letter, a fever dream, a black hole, an escape hatch.

A time capsule.

It’s real life: any identifications with (or similarity to) persons living, dead, comatose, digital, analog—or to actual events—is,
frankly, intentional.