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I scrawled the articles in this anthology in Hawaii, where I have lived several times since 1971. I returned to Reality the last time to face my father's death. He died in Kansas City, where I scrawled a few more absurd pieces. I completed my absurd reflections in Florida, where I was greeted by a hurricane and got stuck with $50 to my name.

I hate and love Miami Beach but it is too Atlantic for me. I loved but never hated Hawaii, so I am dying to return to the Pacific islands for eternal peace, that is, if only Madame Pele will have me again, for she was always kind to me despite her ferocity.

Hawaii may be a paradisiacal retreat from hell, but it was a limbo for me when I began these scrawlings. I had finally managed to escape my miserable history and was on the verge of economic success when I suffered a frightening nightmare in Manhattan, a vision of a dragon breathing fire in hell. I woke up, threw the opportunity of my lifetime away and made reservations for Honolulu. I arrived there in a state of shock.

The internet was booming via the Dot Com Craze at the time. Frustrated writers imagined they could all become rich and famous as content providers freed from the constraints of mainstream publishers. I had fancied my as a writer in my childhood while reading such books as Moby Dick and The Three Muskateers, so I proceeded to eat my savings away and write myself to death. I had already committed metaphysical suicide, so existence, which I considered ending altogether as as far as I was concerned, became my main subject.

Of course existentialism interested me in my state of disbelief over what I had done to myself, so I scrawled in that vein. “Existentialism” certainly suited my failure since the subject was no longer in vogue. I knew that, therefore I stopped submitting my work to editors bound to reject it, and I continued to write myself to death.

“Great writers are usually not recognized until after their death,” I told myself. “I am as good as dead or almost dead already, but I have met my fate. I am a scribbler, that's what I am, so there is no need to rush things. I shall write myself to death for twenty or so years more, throw my corpus onto the river Styx, and perhaps existentialism will become fashionable some day.”

My old-fashioned existentialist mood was appreciated by some e-zine writers. They contributed some scrawlings to the cause. I wrote a guide for submission of existentialist works; my 'Homemade Existentialism Guidelines' is included in this invaluable little book, along with An Afterward Forward, Paul's Last Stand, The Absurd Before Boarding The Bus, On Lucidity, My Futile Happiness, Metaphysical Revolts, Introduction to Myself, The Man Who. Wrote Himself to Death, Ping Pong Murder or Suicide, It's Not Too Late To Revolt, Suicide Someday Magazine, Taking Out My Trash, Submitting My Trash, My Inconsequential Submission, Happy Futility, Being Rolled in Chicago and Honolulu, To Fly A Kite, My Introduction To The Word God . Money is God at Borders, High Misdemeanors, Misfits in Paradise, A Dark View In General, On Living A Meaningful Life, Boredom Can Kill, On The Lucidity of Albert Camus, Dirty Secret of a Classic Russian Existentialist, My Existential Nausea Fiction, Underdog Anxiety, Catch Me If You Can, Certainly Heroes Must Exist, Then Came the Human Beings, Ping-Pong - Murder or Suicide? Making Love Not War, Existence is Dead, Existential Burger King Note, Existential Pythiatism, What is My Fate? AHOY! Man Adrift To Dead End! How To Do Absolutely Nothing, Reasoning on Sunday, I-I-I, My Vain Philosophy, Confession of a Screaming Subjectivist, How Dry I Am, There is Nothing like Nothing, May Existence Rest in Peace, Maybe Existence Lives After All, Are We Neurotic?, Existentialism is not in Vogue, The Ultimate Absurdity, Are We Surd and more....