Note to the reader

Perhaps now could be a time to address the reader and be clear about my intentions with all these stories about women.

It's not about where they end. As always when it comes to being really honest about love and monsters of such form, one will inevitably end in the same point, utter tragedy. That has been done to the extreme of disgust, so greatly and so badly, that any interest is lost to me. The important thing must be the motivations behind the eyes of this marginal characters that seem to be around me, myself being a central figure in this mess of despair and rawness. By making them a vehicle of my twisted perceptions, I hope to find some meaning in what drives us all in this debauchery of fear and loneliness.

Hippies are not only dead but gone with a great lesson learnt by all of us the virtual spawn of the x-generators. We may want love, but we are cynics. We know the ending point of it all. We were born with divorced minds. We roam the streets at night without homes or futures. We don't want kids, we want to vomit, then we want another shot, and then a burrito. We want to fuck ourselves blind, then watch ourselves in the mirror, then have a joint and masturbate to porn. We have no cause because we have no adventure. The world of lies built upon us is so self evident that we not only reject it, we run from it, from its monstrosity, the braver not coming as far as hoping to destroy it by ignoring it.