These are the unpleasant things I've written - not unpleasant in that they make you feel raw, unsteady emotions, but unpleasant in that they make you pity the author, whose ignorance and lack of talent, presented on his Web site, form a mood-dampening portrait of wasted hours. Yet, I've decided, in the interest of completeness, these pieces should be saved; I should remember my failures, both to avoid future failures, and because each of this pieces is a memory, a little speck of brain that I'd prefer not to toss outright; every written piece is part of me, came from me, and I want to keep them around for perverse nostalgia, even if reading them is an exercise in teeth-grinding. Thus this dead pool, the cabinet of horrors, presented in the hopes that it will be ignored by all but the author.

(This is by no means all of the rot - many more entries will be shuffled out of the autobiography and other sections to find their resting place within.)