I Don’t Think “Colophon” Means What You Think It Means.
Fig 1: Your humble narrator experiences his first moment of complete existential panic.
I started a suicide hotline once, but we never logged any calls. I thought maybe it was just a slow year, but when I looked it up on Wikipedia it said there had been four hundred suicides in my city alone. Not a single one of them had called in. I thought of four hundred people, planning out four hundred final moments, thinking no one could say anything to them that would make any difference. It just felt so insulting.
Fig 2: Your humble narrator appears at ease and capable of enjoying social interaction when in fact he is simply inebriated.
The best sandwich I ever had contained the following ingredients: goat cheese, herbes de provence mustard that a girl bought me in France, roasted red peppers, stifado (a Greek stew meat that my mom makes (but she is not Greek)), shoved between two pieces of sliced toasted baguette. If your mom doesn’t make stifado, though, you’re basically fucked for this recipe.
Fig. 3: Your humble narrator’s heart is removed and placed in a canopic jar in preparation for his journey to the afterworld.
This site is published with fun, easy-to-use Squarespace software. I use a lot of other stuff like Simplenote and Fireworks. The results are best viewed with a non-scanning laser ranging system or simple scrying mirror. Web browsers are strictly not supported.
My name is Mark. Mark.net was taken.