You have to be an idiot to enjoy writing. Better yet, you have to enjoy being an idiot in order to write. Generally, I avoid thinking about those things. Because I can; because I am the best writer in the entire dead Universe. You have never heard of me? Of course you haven’t. I don’t write. After all, I am not that kind of idiot.

As any other half-convincing byproduct of the hipster culture, I conform so much to the stereotype of your average blogger, it borders on the ridiculous. And yet, my relationship with online publishing is somewhat of a complicated one. The very idea of opening myself to an anonymous audience (which, let’s face it, will be exclusively composed of a few carefully chosen friends, whom I know will take care of reassuring me about my worth in a very onymous way – no one gets famous on the Internet) makes me cringe a little.

So why this? Probably, because it’s there. Because an empty blog looks as inviting as an empty fridge. Because, as I said before, no one will read my posts and because I won’t make any claims concerning the veracity of whatever will be written here, except for one: everything appearing on these pages has existed inside my head.

The rest of the decision lies with you.