By request, the preface to my non-existent memoirs.
Hello monsters.
If you are reading this, I would like to take this opportunity to mention a few things up front.
1) All this stuff did happen. I am not James Frey. I do not need to tart up a lifetime of Poor Impulse Control and bad decisions with falsehoods to appear interesting. I am arrogant enough to know damn well I experienced things others will wish to read about without resorting to Bullshit.
2) Names and certain details have been modified to obscure the identities of persons living and dead. I don't want others to suffer retribution for being associated with me, and I most definitely do not want any of those assholes receiving accolades or free drinks. I'm the one doing the writing here.
3) If you are familiar with proofs and/or logic, and have noticed the contradiction in the above two items, and intend to complain about it; award yourself a Pedantic Dickweed badge, and then kill yourself.
In the event that I am still alive, I will endeavor to do better in the future. Probably.
In the event that I am now dead, you have missed your opportunity to be a Participant. You may atone for this in the manner of your choosing.
The events that follow are the result of a particular mixture of: a high pain tolerance, fondness towards alcohol, and a burning desire to answer the question "I wonder what that's like?" It necessarily follows that the events which I record here for posterity are occasionally illegal, immoral, unkind, or just plain ol' dumb. The only cautionary note I can leave are the words of Hunter S. Thompson: "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."
Chapter 1: Necrophilia becomes a felony offense in my home state, and I am very sad about this.
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