I woke up from a drunken haze, my ears catapulting searing volleys of aggravated opprobium at my throat (purportedly responsible for the Big red fire engine that was at the time doing the rounds between them), my tongue futilely waggling in my mouth like a stranded fish in the last puddle of a desert, my brain struggling to rid itself of fucking imbecile metaphors.

As is usually the case when I come to under such vituperrious circumstances, I started questioning the purpose of it all. What is the purpose of it all? —I told myself— why am I here?, where am i going?, who am I?, why do i write about my life for a nameless, faceless crowd of at least four anonymous onlookers?, and more importantly, why are there bite marks all over my calf?

These are not questions to be taken lightly, so I decided to dedicate my undivided attention to them. Three minutes and a shot of vodka later, I came to an enlightened conclusion. I even made a new header for the site to reflect my godlike moment of satori (refresh if you don’t see it)

In case you can’t read the pixel type, that says:

If all I ever get out of this website is a threesome, it will have been *so* worth it”

— sergio on October 11, 2004