I’ve always wanted to write a blog that people actually read, but it’s tough.

There are only two kinds of people who have written successful, busy personal blogs: those who accent their posts with photos of their gigantic breasts, and those who accent their posts with photos of their friends’ gigantic breasts. Unfortunately, both my own chest mass and my access to the chest mass of others are quite limited, and my camera doesn’t have the best resolution. It would not be long before I returned to blogging about which sauce I like on my pasta. The problem, as I see it, is that even if you were—ahem—Brangelina, real daily life just isn’t that interesting.

Then I remembered: this is the internet. This is where, with one swift wikipedic stroke, I can convince hundreds of high schoolers that William Shakespeare attended comic conventions dressed up as Naruto. If blogging about what happened in my life is too boring, then I shall blog about all the things that didn’t.

So welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to these fabricated accounts of my life. I hope they bring you unprecedented joy. And remember, no matter how lively the characters, how authentic the setting, there is only one thing about these stories that is true: the fact that they’re not.

Did I tell you about my breasts? They’re, like, gigantic.

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