everybody knows “a Michael.” I’m the Other one.
During the day, I am known as Michael J. Paulukonis. The J. stands for “kinda pretentious, aren’t you?” or Joseph. Take your pick.
a feral child raised by wolves in the wilds of south dakota and speaking no known language
after MLA saboteurs killed his parents in a gruesome dictionary disaster he devoted himself to ridding the world of linear language
granted superhuman powers by an ancient god found in a dusty tome of shakespeare, the author has committed himself to righting the linguistic wrongs of the world
when a library accident hideously scarred his features he retired to a life of seclusion and semantic obscurity
a crack team of government-trained surgeons put him together with one purpose
he writes these things with his toes on an old typewriter bequeathed to him by his grandfather. it is cold and his fingers are encased within warm woolen mittens. they itch. at night wolves bay beneath his window as they feed on his scraps and leavings. their paper-rich diet has made them whisper-thin and leathery. they creak as they walk. their howls are like unto the turning of pages. it is cold outside the house, and there is nothing more to be seen. it snows.
there is no truth to the rumor that he is cruising with elvis in bigfoot’s ufo. although he has been known to play cribbage with bat-boy.
“neither hiking nor sailing. Programmer, scribbler, striker of keys on keyboards.”
Please note that the above are not listed in any particular order, and the frequency of my visits to any given site may be low. Email is usually the best method of contacting me, unless you catch me at my desk.