I'm gonna just write this and worry about putting it in the right order later. I know that some parts go before other parts, like you've got to know my wallet was stolen the instant I moved from Palm Desert to Seattle, and this rudely constructed sentence is the only way I could work that fact in early, but I've got to get things down in the order they occur to me, not the order they happened, otherwise what have you got? Reality, and no one's looking for that. Reality is what happens to you. Fiction is what happens to others. So let's just say this is fiction, from your point of view, and leave it at that. You can believe or disbelieve anything I'm about to tell you, knowing full well I've previously written fact, fiction, and gonzo hybrid. That's what's cool about writing. You can start anywhere and show everyone how your mind works, never mind taking into account how their minds work and what a jerk you might look like for stubbornly sticking to ridiculously twisted and obscure points of view, no matter how subtle, just to show off how easy it is. Since I am, in fact, indulging myself in the pleasure of capturing thought as it happens, right in front of you, measuring the milliseconds in the treasure of typing, you are forgiven for thinking me self indulgent.
It is also, I've found, the most effective way of proving I'm me, which has become an issue lately due to the aforementioned lack of papers that are still the inhabitants of the wallet that's no longer in my possession. Someone other than me, a me with ID, could be trying to pass themselves off as me right now, which explains why nobody totally believes that I am who I say I am. I might be someone else. Who could I be? That's the problem.
The only way I can REALLY prove I'm me is to do what I'm doing. Who the fuck else writes like this? Not me.
As proof that I'm the Michael Dare I say I am, I can do nothing but construct sentences only Michael Dare would write, like this one, too many commas, going on long past the point of common sense and into the Infinityland Wax Museum and Old Age Home for Thoughts You'd Thought Long Extinguished. Yeah, I know, it's obnoxious, when am I going to shut the fuck up and get on with it, and the only excuse I've got for linguistic leaps of the spastic kind is the task set before me, to prove who I am, fact or fiction, who the hell is writing it, why are you reading it, what do I mean by WHAT, what do I mean by DO, what do I mean by I, and what do I mean by MEAN, it's up to you, believe me.
