Born in a log cabin in the late 18th century, Hunter Breckenridge was raised wrestling bears, whittlin’, making folksy yet timeless speeches to adoring crowds, opening for the Stones, and guzzling inhuman amounts of gin.
When he’s not making up crap like the above paragraph, he is typing odd biographical information about himself in the third person, then I switch it up to the first person. See what I did there?
I try to write, frequently in a disorganized manner. I will gradually become more organized about where my words are placed, though the content is not likely to improve. Sorry to get your hopes up.
Subjects will frequently regress to politics, with the occasional yammering about science, technology, movies, music, and whatever my brain generates on a given day.
I can usually be found somewhere in the strange land of Missouri, drinking coffee, making lists, driving around, thinking really hard about things that are too complicated for me, and doing my damnedest to be funny. I usually don’t succeed at that one.
I want to write fiction, and sometimes do, but I have yet to show it to many people, much less try to have someone who can publish things see what I’ve written. I’m a bit less shy with my non-fiction, to the detriment of all who attempt to read it. This is my third attempt at a blog of this nature. If I am able to be published elsewhere, especially online, I will likely pimp it shamelessly on this august blog. August blog. Those two words don’t belong together. Kind of like “nuanced libertarian.” I kid. Mostly. Sorry, libertarians, but teasing you is my specialty.
Anyhoo, I’m rambling now, so feel free to to clear out of this page now, and go entertain yourself with my posts – or, more wisely for you, something else entirely.
P.S. This is me, communing with nature. Try to contain yourself, oh gentle reader. As in, try not to injure yourself laughing.