LAIR

Well, now that you've ventured forth into my lair I have in fact captured you and will in fact be subjecting you to some terrible and profane rituals later. I did say "IF YOU DARE".

Anyway, now that I've requisitely sealed off all of the exits, allow me to welcome you to the Graveyard Shift. For many long years I have been trapped in this labyrinth of horrors. My endless toil constitutes its geometry. To earn my freedom from this place, I have labored in scores of dark trials that pretty easily resemble taking undergraduate classes in English, writing practices, and journalism. 

The work has driven me irreversibly mad, and also somewhat developed my skills in and philosophy of composition. The curse of this terrible place has taken me from a hapless ingenue to someone who has a general handle on writing as a skill and a discourse, which is of course the most wretched kind of person you can be.

The howling halls of the Graveyard Shift hold the secrets to my descent. From the desolate forests of short-form fiction to the catacombs of poetry thick with death-stench to the awful laboratory of cruel analytical experiments, to wander this place is to put together the pieces of the person I once was and the person you may become should you spend too long in the darkness. 

A person forever corrupted by learning productive things about the writing discipline and its application to post-collegiate life. A person with a valuable skill-set and a sense of personal accomplishment that motivates them to continue writing even outside of the immediate academic framework. A person proud to reflect upon the work that has brought them to their current level of understanding and mastery. Indeed a fate worse than death.

Anyway, I've got candles to set up and ungulates to slaughter. Feel free to wander. Admire the architecture, peruse the cursed tomes. Maybe you'll go mad enough to take my place.