Hi, everyone. This is my website. It’s got all of the state-of-the-art modern conveniences. It’s in color. It’s open 24 hours a day and most major holidays (we’re closed on Arbor Day). You can scroll both up AND down. It’s not finished yet, but when it’s all ready, it’s gonna have a fuck-ton of writing about movies, music and books, and life and death. At the very least, I can promise you that it will have many, many, many commas.

And I didn’t just start writing this stuff last Wednesday. When this Constant Bleeder bitch is fully operational, it will offer roughly ten years worth of nonsense that I’ve written for other even more seedy online venues. I’ve done pretty well for myself from that ten years of writing. It bought me the 14,000-acre Colorado ranch from which I’m currently typing these words. It’s made me a huge celebrity in Southeastern Liechtenstein. It paid for my divorce from my first wife and bought me my second wife. It’s gotten me many creatively spelled compliments and criticisms from many drug addicts across the globe.

It’s time that I struck out on my own, I think. Bought my own property. Erected my own tower. Put up my own gates! Hired armed guards! Killed and looted freely! (Or at least tried to finally break Northwestern Liechtenstein.)

Actually, I don’t have much of a vision for it, yet. I’m not into web design. I don’t know how to “code”. Imagine the 78-year-old man who was in line in front of you at Walgreen’s last week starting his own website. That’s me. My idea for the best way to present writing is a BOOK. Neat black printing against a stark white surface. That’s my scene. I like the simple stuff.

But the internet gives you so many possibilities that you start to question your aesthetic. Maybe I should go wild with pictures and animations and videos and things that blink and flutter across the screen like wasps. Internet coding invites you to go right up your ass, out of your mouth and up to Jupiter’s furthest moon. But is there any room in that mess for a person to just pull up a chair and TALK (which is all that I want to do)? Does that come through via fancy coding? Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll try to figure it out by 2027.

In the meantime, here I am, pratfalling all over the place, breaking virtual China plates, cracking digital crystal and tripping through imaginary glass windows.

This is not the prettiest website on the Whirled Wide Web, but maybe it doesn’t need to be that. Maybe we here at The Constant Bleeder are comfortable being ugly. Maybe we don’t care who looks in on us. Maybe we’re happy if just one person likes us. Maybe we just want to like ourselves. Maybe YOU, dear reader, are a fucking intruder (which is what readers are).

Fine with me. We’re all sinners here.