So what's an X-Ray, anyway?

It might be funny, but probably it won't.
It might be true, but probably it won't.
It might be worth your time, but probably it won't.

Through the looking glass, Alice, and bang, zoom, right to the moon. The head on the door over there to the right is a heck of a lot prettier than the one you're about to peek inside.

(That was your last and final warning.)

Abandon Hope All Ye Who Click Below.

(Okay, that was your last and final warning.)

Sixty-six, which I didn't write but find very humorous.

Sixty-five, which relaunched this feature after a 29-month gap.

Sixty-four, which is about vegetables.

Sixty-three, which is about strategy.

Sixty-two, which is about concerts and eyebrows.

Sixty-one, which is about roommates.

Sixty, which inspired a screenplay I wrote in college.

Fifty-nine, which is a little science experiment.

Fifty-eight, which includes a quote I've repeated ever since I heard it.

Fifty-seven, which continues the television theme.

Fifty-six, which bears some resemblance to actual workplaces.

Fifty-five, in which I spell a short word.

Fifty-four, which contains a recent acquisition.

Fifty-three, which features another rare X-Ray appearance by "music."

Fifty-two, which features a teacher I never liked that much anyway.

Fifty-one, which was just a cameo.

Fifty, the big five-o, which was resolved more quickly than it could have been.

Forty-nine, in which music saves the day, yet again.

Forty-eight, which gets a little sappy.

Forty-seven, which is a look into the distant past.

Forty-six, which contains the word condom.

Forty-five, in which I suffer from exhaustion.

Forty-four, which is about a certain musical physician.

Forty-three, in which I put a razor to good use.

Forty-two, which is another boring list, but with a funny list buried in the middle.

Forty-one, which was the last part of a long night.

Forty, which was a common occurrence.

Thirty-nine, which is an account of the very first time.

Thirty-eight, which is just the way things go sometimes.

Thirty-seven, which continues the story.

Thirty-six, the damage from which is still visible.

Thirty-five, which includes my alternate stage name.

Thirty-four, in which I rip off Shakespeare, sort of.

Thirty-three, which is a continuation.

Thirty-two, which is a simple request.

Thirty-one, which happened in the same place as Number Six.

Thirty, which is just the beginning.

Twenty-nine, which was a long time coming.

Twenty-eight, which is a true story in the form of a screenplay.

Twenty-seven, which is not a complete catalog.

Twenty-six, which doesn't even come close.

Twenty-five, which has nothing to do with basketball.

Twenty-four, which requires some explaining.

Twenty-three, which includes the word exponentially.

Twenty-two, which doesn't really have much interesting to say.

Twenty-one, which is the first time its subject has been assigned a gender.

Twenty, in which I talk to myself yet again.

Nineteen, which is sort of a reverse confession.

Eighteen, which is about protesters.

Seventeen, which is really kinda gross.

Sixteen, in which I abbreviate real names in an annoying manner.

Fifteen, which, believe it or not, is actually about music for once.

Fourteen, which is in the form of a letter.

Thirteen, which is a tad minimalistic.

Twelve, which is about a bike accident.

Eleven, which was co-written with a friend.

Ten, which is a picture, but also text.

Nine, which is about dreams.

Eight, which is not me talking, but is, instead, the kind of embarrassing drivel that I spew when I over-connect with characters in strange, depressing movies.

Seven, which is about television.

Six, which is about lines.

Five, in which the names are not the real ones.

Four, which is about words.

Three, which is about music.

Two, which is sour as green Runts.

One, in which there are many commas.

Zero, which is the way The Swedish Chef originally envisioned this page.