Andrew McDonnell, that is, anyhow. And I got that funk, you didn't know. This is my little website.
And about this little website, I made it myself, from scratch. It even looks like it. I thought maybe I'd write a guide on how to do that. But that is ugly, from what I've already attempted. And I'm thinking that the behind-the-scenes stuff will remain then behind-the-scenes—you're welcome.
Here now, I don't know what this is, then. This is my personal website. It's where I can be found online. It's my little plot of internet. Make it what I will I suppose.
A bit about me then, there's not much to say. I don't have a profession. And I'm almost retired even. I'm an artist I must unfortunately admit, just practicing my trade. And all else is secondary, and only for a bit of scratch to scrape-by a bit.
Like a housewife that feels like to say, from a man too, a housewife, an artist. With pride it should be said, though, by a true artist indeed, like a mutual-fund manager or something, like a Marine. But so easily can it be said, "I'm an artist," and is, that the value of it is naught. It's every dead-beat's last call to comfort—yours truly. So I don't say it. But maybe I should. It feels liberating, like I was hiding it, which I was unaware of till just now.
My father thinks I'm gay. Just tell me something if you ever need to tell me something, he says constantly. Maybe that's what I'm hiding then. Dad, I'm an artist, I'm sorry to break it to you. Sounds stupid. But he'd say, son, I knew all along you were gay, it's okay. And I'd say, whatever. You got $150 you can send me? And if I was a civil engineer, he'd say, can I send you $550 instead? How money attracts money. But no money attracts none. And I'm just an artist. And he laughs and he hangs-up. And then he turns-off his phone.
But you can feel free to email me if you'd like, firstname.lastname@example.org. The email should work. And I love Twitter.