My name is Ray. That is all.

Some of the many self-appointed and endearingly assigned nicknames/alias' are as follows:

Pierre: I eat expensive cubes of cheese and drink red wine. Sue me. Figuratively. Of course.

Carrots: I eat...carrots. Again sue me.

Snowman: I hail from North Pole, Alaska. Period. No questions. No exaggerated scoffs or upturned eyebrows, I know it's unusual. Moving on.

Yes for eighteen years I lived on a 4" x 4" block of floating ice and on the way to what passes for public school I had to cunningly evade through miles of geographical treachery the marauding and godless polar bear killing machines or so I tell them, I had a difficult childhood, gangs of kids packing Kalishnikovs and AK-47s in Rio de Janeiro and riding a basket on a zip-line across a chasm to get to school have nothing on me

...and for those wondering inquisitively my predominant method of transportation was a bed of penguins tethered to one-another with spearmant dental floss that I craftily swindled from this dentist's private practice because he did a disastrous job on my teeth (more irrelevant information I know), their sturdy and soft and adorable and actually "waddle" miles upon miles in a squalid blizzard to scavenge food for their young.

Alpha Delta Delta: I have neither a hyper-active disorder, nor do I lack the requisite traits needed in order to extend any considerably long train of concentration to any one thing. But yes I am high-strung, easily-enamored, mentally-unstable, drug-addled, and bereft of debonair attributes and/or elegance in motor functions, in other words I'm a klutz, I fucking abhor that damn word, but its the only one I could think of that had any application to what I was attempting frivolously to convey.

Ahem.

Vocab Doctor: By no means immediately identifiable, am I or do I feel compelled to "doctor" the poor vocabularies/lexicon/syntax/grammar/pronunciation of those around me. In fact I don't feel that I am overtly keen on multi-syllabic aphorisms or the Twitter-slang that passes for high-minded communication these days, I'm actually pretty shitty at most aspects of verbalizing words and sentences, embarrassingly so. But I do read the dictionary to conceal the fact that I am glaringly incompetent at the most basic of tasks. There it is people. For those few concerned.

All of which I previously mentioned is a lie The good kind.

Dialing number combinations in cell-phones? Forget about it. Remembering your birthday? Try me.

Occasionally I do know what i'm talking about, despite what they say.

Anyway. I'm a writer by choice. An aspiring writer, haven't published anything yet. Or ever?

Currently toiling away feverishly on my fiction book called The Mission Statement which I also plan to adapt into a speculative film script as well (that‘s the ultimate dream actually), half convoluted/self-important/psychological/meditative allegory on a hopelessly implausible future scenario where the world infrastructure in failing along all social and political and secular fault lines, half noir detective story laced with civil upheaval and suggestive eroticism. Enjoy. I mean enjoy making sense out of that synopsis, because I can't. Actually, in the event you've made it this far, and understand the premise of my book, please explain it to me. I'm lost, really.

The first goal in writing my book is to tell a story. The second goal is to avoid like the teething labium of some horrific Lovecraftian beast, churning this baby out in a flimsy 200 page paper-back. That would just be disappointing after all this time.

To clarify, at the end of the day, not only do I want to tell a compelling and potentially Pulitzer-prize winning fiction novel, but I want for it to have many practical applications in the real world as well. Say in the case it is a 350+ hardback, provided a hypothetical reader is...reading my book and suddenly happens upon a bloodthirsty, Espresso-crazed assailant in the seedy, liberal menagerie that is San Diego California, the person simply marks their spot in the book, folds it shut, carefully places it in their Dolce and Gabbana shopping bag, and proceeds to do "wind-mills" with it, or brandish it in a scornful manner. Maybe I should make an instruction video detailing the steps to fending off dribbling downtown maniacs with a dense book about fascist pugilism circa the 1950s. Yes. That's what it is REALLY about.

What other real-world applications could it be used for? Tell me. I'm losing interest.

At this point i'd consider penning three-hundred pages of contraceptive-themed anecdotes, slapping a Bible binding on it with gold embroidering, and calling it a day.

I'll probably just finish this flabbergasted, pessimistic, comically disinclined, early-afternoon, deluded, perfunctory declaration of meandering dichotomies right about now. In other words I'm too tired to make sense. In fact only rarely do I make sense. Contradictory? Yes.

Amusing? I fucking hope so.

Gifted? Ummm, maybe.

Well it's time for my caffeinated suppository. Since nothing gives me energy anymore if orally ingested or otherwise. So I'm going to try below the hips. I'll keep you posted as to the results.

By the way, to any aspiring writers with leaky bladders and fleeting attention spans. Adult diapers and morphine. Problem solved. I just secured the future of fine literature. Thank you. Thank you.

For anyone so inclined to stare longingly at this unleashing of words in the optimistic expectation of a leveling finale of such revelatory proportions so as to render them mouth a gap and speechless with sheer entertainment value and philisophical clarity of understanding, stop doing so. Now. Please.

No, really. Stop. This isn't going anywhere.

To be honest this is kind of a distraction from anything remotely obligating i.e. book/screenplay/homework...

There's nothing quite like a couple scrambled temporal lobes for breakfast, and perhaps a frontal lobe thrown in for good measure, Hannibal Lecter eat your heart out (pun intended).

I've been told by certain individuals of romantic implication to myself, not going to reveal or allude to their identities, they know who they are. I've been told that my relatively unspectacular sex life is equated to being a three-pronged wall plug-in device attempting to fit into a European electrical outlet, so does that mean my gentleman's "accessory" is generally "incompatible" with "foreign" women's "insert coy euphemism for female sex organ."

That last diatribe about my sex life is entirely fictional and open to interpretation. Moving on

Don't poke me. Don't do it, unless I give you permission.

I'm not a backseat conversationalist. Think about it.

I'm currently abusing some back-alley, black-market derivative of pharmaceutical narcotics. True.

If, by chance you managed to scale (or descend?) the entirety of this presumptive description of myself. Thank you.

...and talk to me, I’m lonely. And exceedingly bored and apathetic. And cynical of smarmy strangers.

If I could easily abstain from the buzzing trajectories of the general public, I’d be slightly more happy. Slightly.

Michael Bay's next film will be a topical examination of the human condition as seen through the eyes of an fugitive expatriate in a politically tumultuous near future, it'll revolutionize the way we look at cinematic art.

Michael Bay's next film will be six hours long and take place inside of a perpetual explosion.

Windows Vista Operating System is not at all prone to bugs and glitches.

Cosco's, Starbucks, and Twitter are a megalomaniac triumvirate secretly moonlighting as a mass-market supplier of illegally procured organs. This is true.

Aimless rambling. Over. Seriously. I’m finished.

Take care everyone.

-Ray Ray