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Hello there, I’m The Anthropophagist. If you don’t have an assholeish obsession with language like mine, I should explain that ‘anthropophagist’ is a five-dollar word for cannibal. I enjoy using big words such as ‘anthropophagist’ and ‘ballyhooed’ because I’m a humanities douche and I graduated from Yale and I need those big words to fill the hole in my head where humility is supposed to go.

Why did I choose to self-describe as a cannibal, you didn’t ask? Because, as a dirty hippie might mutter through his unkempt beard, we’re all consumers, man. All we do is consume, man. And when we’re at our very worst, man consumes man, man. Get it? Heavy symbolism indeed. All that aside, I would venture that cannibalism is one of the most commonly agreed upon taboos and, as evidenced by my predilection for extreme music and horror movies, I am a fan of exploring taboos. There. That’s my serious answer, glazed – as one might expect – with a slime of superiority, characteristic of self-aggrandizing, Ivy League book-learners like me.

Despite the fact that I am just shy of being a perfect human, I have foibles and quirks like anyone else. Why even this morning, I forgot to put down my snifter before guffawing heartily and dropped my monocle in my cognac. Thankfully, my butler was on hand to fetch me a fresh glass of Pierre Ferrand – but I digress. Like many humans, I have a morning ritual. When I wake up – before cracking open another rare tome borrowed from one of my dearest professors – I ask myself one simple question: should I kill myself today? I persist in asking it, over and over again, despite my fear that at some point the answer will be “yes”. So far, however, the answer to that query has been a solid “no”. This has been for a variety of reasons – including, but not limited to – my lovely wife, my loving friends and family, and my love of art. For our purposes here, I’ll try to confine my ramblings to art. I do so hope that you’ll find them as droll as I do.

Writing, music, and writing about music are rather good reasons to stay alive. I’ve been a writer of some sort since I was a child and I’ve been a musician in some shape or form since I was a slightly older child. I started out playing guitar – I still play a bit, but I’m not very good – then moved on to rapping through high school and college – I still rap a bit and I’m quite dope – before settling into my current role as the vocalist of a tech death band. So, if you want to discuss poor guitar playing, sickeningly-ill rhymes, or screaming throatily at the world, I’m your man. As for writing, I am an aspiring playwright and completely as annoying as the beginning of this sentence would make you think.

As one might expect, I have immaculate taste. I have a deep fondness for hardcore, a visceral affection for grindcore, a sentimental weakness for skramz, and a burning devotion to mathcore. I also harbor a violent hatred for pop metalcore. Generally, if the genre has “core” as a suffix, I am interested in it, whether to love it, as a child does a newborn puppy, or to smother it, as a child does a newborn puppy. One might call me a hipster for my tastes, but it would be hard for me to hear over the HORSE the Band playing on the stereo and the sound of craft beers being cracked in the background.

So, now we begin this journey to explore music and other things, the things that have kept me alive for these long years. And I will continue to ask myself the question. I will ask it because it reminds me of what drives me to do all this. It’s a reminder of what I will lose when I die: my wife, my friends and family, my writing, my music, and my monocle.

I’ll leave you with “The Huntsman” by Pariso, my favourite song from this year: