The perils of writing the back cover came without warning. Full of poems, stories, observations, and pictures, any format would be acceptable, which left me too many options. I tried to pawn the task off on Alison Golfman, my first fan/groupie, but she had exams. Right, university...that thing I neglected to do. I tried writing about my past year until I realized how cynical it was getting. Forget that, try something new: write a short story that covers all the themes herein. That became too complicated. The next day I was told to write something, lest they transplant some inner text to the back. I scrambled for an opener: Not everything in life goes exactly as planned; Ninety-nine percent of civilized people live the same life; I grew up too fast...they all fell apart. If only I had a typewriter; then the crumpled, would-be pitches for the back of the book could inspire me.

I could write about the letter I sent to Tom Robbins and the one I got back, but I doubt it would warrant me a stay at his panther mansion. I could open with a joke, but who knows who'd find it funny. I could do a bunch of things to trick you into reading this book, but the work inside speaks for itself better than I can. Love, lust, the bathroom, the bus, and the decay of civilization; You'll find it here, and I do hope you enjoy.