Drink after drink, dragging myself whole and kicking into this end-it-all madness, I've undermined my perspective in favor of base escapism. I've a mouthful of bile, a bellyful of raw fish, and a colonful of rotting beef; and there's the gist of it. Nevertheless, I stomp.

I'm most often called Goat. I'm a good egg, an odd duck, and, more often than not, the would-be wallflower who didn't bother showing up for wallflower duty. I'm the cat with something to say which most often goes unsaid, and I don't usually mind unless I take a look around, at which point I see all sorts of nastiness that makes me wish I lived in a Rockwell painting. Or a novel by Warren Ellis. (The latter is also full of nastiness, but in a good way. You will either trust this or check Transmetropolitan out, either of which will be good for you.)

I'm a book fetishist of the worst sort, and if I could choose for myself any job in the world, I'd be a librarian or a bookseller.