Caffeine-fueled, smoke-bellowing insomniac BENJAMIN ANDEARSON is a prolific writer of things to be read — particularly by those who do not actually know him and could see behind the pseudonym, for it is here that he gives vicious man-birth to the cyclonic subjective activity that keeps him from sleep. It is here that he embraces catharsis and conducts alchemy on the endlessly weird prima materia that he has procured and it operates as a psychological survival technique. He also just really fucking likes writing. Consequently, all who enter here shall face an avalanche of:
poetry, articles, essays, fiction,
meditations and angry rants,
specifically regarding such things as:
perhaps even yo mamma.
There is also autobiographical material, much of which deals with his frequent perceptual anomalies and/or paranormal experiences, which one might class under the following titles:
contacts with the dead, (aka spirits, evicted ghosts of expired meat machines, etc)
… and, of course, what kind of mixed-nuts life would be complete without: