Your corrupt, ramshackle 21st Century press machine has at last seen fit to publish an article on yours truly, in this month's issue of "Instinct." Go buy a copy, or I'll know, somehow. Go on. Right now! Git! I don't care if you're in Uruguay or whatever. Get your ass on a plane and fly someplace th' dang magazine is available! It's your blogtriotic duty.
Okay, fine. Here's a big image of the blurb.
The writing's okay, I suppose, but I wish people would stop attributing my blog to Jeremy Rizza. Okay, so I crashed at his old pad for a year-and-a-half and he let me use his computer, and I'm still accessing it now, from my glorious future world that you filthy Neanderthals couldn't even begin to comprehend, but that doesn't make him the blog's "author." Why is that so hard for everybody to understand?
I don't really like that picture they used of me, either. That one's from a few months ago, when I was messing around with a re-design of one of my older costumes, just to see if I wanted to cover up my cyborg legs. I decided against it. And my eyes look crazy. Probably from staying up for a solid week working on the damn thing, with only coffee and Weight Wizard's travel-sized hotness to keep me going.
Also, no way, no how am I "bitchy." Storm Boy is bitchy. When you're as big and hairy and as reeking of testosterone (and certain other intoxicating aromas) as I am, you're "gruff" or "saturnine" or "a harsh taskmaster" and that's that.
"...even more bitchily than Mr. Blackwell." Damn it...