Disclaimer.

Since I started writing about Michael, Jerry, Robbie, me and the 1998 UGA fires while drunk last night, I suppose I should be obligated to tell the rest of the story at some point.

I always wanted to write a big book about it anyway and call it "Flaming."

Those of you who know me and have heard the stories over and over, I hope that you'll find whatever I write about it entertaining.

Those of you who don't know me, feel free to write me and ask me what it's all about. I'll forward you links to the relevant news articles and such.

Those of you who think what I wrote last night shows me at my most scary and most potentially slutty, get over it. I'm a single gay guy who kisses random people. (And Michael's my friend, anyway. And, when I kissed Steven, it was another friendly thing.)

I'm also a guy with a past involving friends who were victims of arson. Or not. (Read the book when I write it.)

You may have to take my word for it on this one, but I'm sorta cool and good to know. And I'm not really any more or less screwed-up than anybody else when you get right down to it.

So, now, if I'm going to continue this story, I suppose I should write about the night I met Michael S.

But it's late. I can't start writing about it now.