HO are you, boy?

ell if I know.

his is supposed to be the autobiographical section of the website. Tradition dictates that here I must autobiographize my entire life story, everything that made me who I am, starting from my very conception (my father's birthday is October 19, my birthday is July 12... you do the math), through my first high school crush (and the equi-passionate near-maniacal hatred for the boy who stole her away from me), to my current fetish-like obsession with dried pineapple rings. This must be followed with a complete canonical specification of my present-day status, activities, dreams, fears, and unusually-sized body parts.

owever, in general, I am extremely reluctant to talk about myself and who I am. Some event buried deep within my childhood instilled in me a fervid belief that modesty and humility reign supreme among virtues, and self-contemplation of any kind would lead directly to brimstone, blindness, and hairy palms. (It later occurred to me that palm hair might develop as a result of blindness; a navigational aide akin to cat whiskers.) Another reason why I usually avoid self-description is that many of my personal traits are not the sort of thing that one would brag about, or even admit openly. You would rather expect to hear them confessed in the same apologetic whisper used to inform a lover about the unfavorable results of an STD test.

fter a few abortive attempts, I had just about given up on writing this section. I was on the verge of replacing "Who I Am" with a link to whitehouse.gov, along with the caption, "Like him. Except exactly the opposite." But then, miraculously, my eye was drawn to a nearby copy of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Psychology and Fast Food Preparation. (Not as incongruous a pairing as you might think; a college degree in one often leads to a successful career in the other.) Thumbing through the section on proper grease-trap maintenance, I came across the very cornerstone of modern psychoanalysis -- the inkblot test. Invented by Dr. Hermann Rorschach in his lavatory one afternoon during a routine act of post-excretive self-cleansing, the inkblot test was quickly adopted as the industry standard for all psyche-delving and subconscious-exposing needs.

figured that if inkblots have been successfully serving the psychiatric pseudo-profession for almost a century, I might as well give them a shot to overcome my reflective taciturnity. Thus, on the following pages, you will find a series of blobs that were generated completely randomly, along with my self-revealing descriptions of them. Be warned that what is disclosed within may not be for the faint of heart (nor for the heartily faint, or the faintly hard, or the... oh, never mind).