UPDATE: I’ve since written a more conventional biography, dating my life from now back to the oft-left-ambiguous “then”. If you want to read that instead of this load of twallop, click here.

Depending on when you catch me, I am the single most interesting, or single most boring person you will ever meet.

I’ve had an unconventional life. I often get the feeling I’m trapped at the middle of a tornado - there’s a flurry of activity all around me, but it rarely catches me.

I write and read. I sometimes offer criticisms for other people’s writings, but I think the whole concept of literary criticism was created by people lacking imagination. This said, I have a fairly exclusive setup with Joseph O’Brien in the proof-reading and editing of his work, on the odd occasion that he actually produces it (not very often).

I have published my first (official) book with Joseph O’Brien, entitled The Chewy Cerebrum and Other Stories, which you can buy here. I have invested rather a lot of money in this book, and I expect no return on this investment.

I am middle-class, white, and of a fairly high academic intelligence.

I believe that I am superior in the knowledge that man is by his nature inferior, and believe that other claims to superiority are made by ignorant people. I acknowledge we have massive flaws in our design, and as such take very little seriously nowadays that doesn’t impinge upon my potential comforts. Even those which I do take seriously, I only apply a serious attitude towards, but it’s the attitude of another man.

I am a schizophrenic without schizophrenia. A depressive without depression. An advanced retard.

I am young - too young to be making such sweeping judgements as the ones above. On the other hand, I feel like I’m ageing too quickly.

I have lived a life where everyone around me, regardless of whether they loved or hated me, has fucked me up - either on a major scale or in some small way. This, I don’t mind. At least, not all the time. On the odd occasion that I do mind, it doesn’t last.

I deplore volatility, encourage violence. Deplore the torture of animals, believe man should hunt. Understand that I am too physically weak to achieve this ideal, and my society-given lack of physical motivation means I never will.

I am unloved. The few friends I have could drift at a moment’s notice. My hetero life-partner cares as and when it suits him. He has a problem, in that he shares my traits.

I do not wear retarded make-up, black cloaks, straighten my hair, fasten plasters to my cheek, wear casts on my arms, or apply eyeliner/eyeshadow. This awful excuse for a blog is my emotional outlet. I don’t need pretence to do that.

My name is Christopher James Fraser. I crave a more interesting name.

You should not, for any reason, no matter how convoluted, read this blog. Go out, get laid, spout pseudo-philosophical nothings you barely understand, and leave me to stew in my own pretension.