Things That Have Happened

I realise as I write this the concept is, at its core, self indulgent. Nobody in their right mind would want to know the story of someone who's twenty-one, unless they were particularly rich, particularly famous, particularly attractive, dying, and preferably all four.

I'm none of these things and I know it. I'm not particularly rich; rather I'm so poor that I still live with my father. I'm not particularly famous, and I don't think that's something that will ever change unless I become a serial killer or happen to come into slapping distance of a prominent politician. I'm not particularly attractive, in part because of my genes and in part because of little concern for my own appearance. And I'm not dying, though my diet may one day lead to a clogged artery.

So I understand that whatever I write in the chapters that follow will be, by necessity, self-indulgent and an excercise in self-obsession. This is doubled when I admit that I have no plans to give some inspirational message about how things get better, or about how even the best people fall down sometimes. I don't think that things get better for everyone, and out of all the people I would consider to be the cream of the crop of humanity; I've never had the good fortune to know any of them well enough to see them fall.

In the end, none of this bothers me enough to not do it. None of this deters me from writing what I think I want to share publicly about my life thus far, and none of this deters me from thinking that maybe someone, somewhere would be vaguely interested in reading something like this.