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16 May 1968
External Services:
  • fabulist@livejournal.com
Most of what you need to know about me is in my writing.

I'm forty-three, going grey everywhere, and could be fairly described as a ratty old pickup truck reincarnated as a regular Joe. I'm fine with that. I work in the construction and facility management trade, albeit in a rather distinct setting, and my hands are constantly nicked up from work and there's a kind of grease and grime that's worked itself into the traces of my fingerprints that gets harder to wash away as time goes by.

I prefer the company of women, and the intimacy of men, though I'll trade either at my whim. The world is too damn big for specific fetishes. In the end, we're all just who we are.

I worked in an office for twenty years, though it felt like a million. I won't spend another day at a goddamn desk in a sterile, fluorescent-lit warren of cubicles, staring into the maw of despair as I tick off bullet points on list composed by a committee of middle-management morons and feeling the emptiness and lethargy settling into my bones. Chairs are the tools of the devil, if you believe in such a thing. Nowadays, if I'm in front of a computer, it's because I'm writing.

I love writing, and telling tales.

Everything you read here might be a lie. They call me "fabulist" not without cause. I dream big, in great swirling drifts of words. Everything you read here is true, absolutely, even when it's not. I don't think it matters much, not with the overwhelming chaos that surrounds us. All you need to know about me is right here.

Nothing is true, everything is permitted. (Thank you, Brion Gysin.)

I've been writing on Livejournal for more than five years now, and have turned out thousands of pages of what might be good writing, or bad writing, or just mundane writing, so much that I don't even remember which is which anymore. I used to think of myself as a sort of columnist for a half-assed newspaper with a tiny circulation, banging out these little missives with a kind of joyous self-deception, and much of my writing here shows.

Lately, I've been too busy to write, so I've been writing in my head.

Things will emerge as time allows.

The thing is, I'm not able to use Livejournal as the social medium it once was for me, for no better reason than the demands of my new line of work and the scale of a project that I'm undertaking in the time that's left over. I try to read and keep up, but I've not been sufficiently conscientious of late, and so I'm a little lost in what my LJ friends are up to. It's not personal—it's just about time, and the lack thereof.

Friend me and I'll friend you back, which will let you read the more explicit, disturbing, or personal of my entries, but I may not be able to reciprocate just now. Things may be different, soon. It's not for lack of desire or gratitude, either—LJ has kept me afloat more than once, and built friendships that have been the foundation of the life I have now. It's even brought love my way, as complex and confusing as that's been.

If you don't like what you read here, de-friend me if you like, and I'll return the favor shortly thereafter. Nothing personal, I suppose. If I offend you, tell me why, or don't. Debate can be a glorious thing. I can be pompous, or contradictory, or cantankerous. This is my own playground.

So far so good.

Here we go.
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