At the time of this writing, my claim to fame in life is null. I’m exactly nobody. My area of expertise is a similarly empty set. I’m not a treasure trove of knowledge on any single topic. Nor am not the kind of person whose story you’d kill to know.

This book has no central point, no main take-away, no unifying message. No overarching narrative, no likable protagonist, no rhyme and/or reason. It’s neither fiction nor non-fiction; its tone alternates erratically. It cites no sources, names no people. It offends for sport. It antagonizes tradition, denies existence, has overtones of sexism and racism, sympathizes with capitalism, and expresses deep bitterness toward humanity and unwarranted hostility toward you, my reader. Its attempts at humor frequently fall flat. It fails to fully explore the person (me) behind the scores of baseless assertions.

All of which, of course, begs the question: why, then, should you care? Well… You shouldn’t. Stop reading now. Read something else. Anything else. For the reasons stated above. Byyyeee!

Aside from being a little proud of this, the truth is that I’m embarrassed. Because, for one, it is highly presumptuous to think anyone would want to hear the thoughts of an irrelevant stranger. Second, much of it is in poor taste, is unfunny, or makes me look bad. Third, sometimes I leave in a sentence that, were I a better writer, I’d have the conviction to remove, like this one.

So really, please move along. It does mean the world to me that you even considered acquiring this pure work of art to keep atop your toilet tank to confuse your guests twelve minutes at a time as they take a shit. You take care now.