1. I can't ever decide where to begin. If I could, I would write an entire book of disclaimers, endless forwards, an interminable stream of author's notes, each more sudden, more urgent than the last. The only reader who finds this more aggravating than you, is me.
2. My book is about that one, singular purpose of my thinking existence - that which consumes me. Women; a memoir of gratification, and spiraling, frantic introspection. These stories of addiction and weakness, and moral instability are often pathetic upon examination - I feel pathetic writing it too. Which leads me to my 3rd point:
3. I often find myself suddenly realizing that, while everything matters, nothing matters. I find it quite difficult to complain about anything at great length, or explore the pathology of my lifestyle with any serious effort, when that which was before considered to be pathological, is suddenly regarded as harmless, unimportant, or benign.
Is this book simply an ill constructed sob story, designed to validate my neurotic exploration of self pity to be passed off as epic tragedy worthy of reading?