What I Think About Myself

If you tried to mug me, I would kick your ass.  I’m not a large man, and I have zero fighting experience.  But there is a flame inside me.  If you stepped to me and tried to fuck with me I could and would absolutely destroy you.

I’m selfish with my time and admiration.  Some folks beg to differ with this appraisal I often offer of myself, but that’s only because I like them, my favor shines upon them.  If I don’t want anything to do with you, I ignore you.  I don’t put this forward as a positive.  It is a negative.  I can’t fix it.

I am confident.  I have bad handwriting.  I can be sentimental. I’m not the sort of man you want on your swim team.  Or your bowling team.  But choose me for your badminton team.

I am a fucking rock star.  When I sit and think silently, or stand to proclaim an idea or opinion, lights should kick on and shine, large backlit projection screens should display artsy images, low rumbling bass-heavy industrial music should start to play.  I am a serious motherfucker.  Some people see me as goofy, or a jokester, or perhaps amiable.  Untrue.  I am a serious fucking rock star who will blow your mind.

That being said, I’m also genuinely hilarious.

I’m a bad housekeeper.  I’m always the first to know when Daylight Savings Time starts.  I’m a hunt-and-peck typist.  I don’t give a shit.

I judge people.  I judge them based on what kind of hat they wear, or how they walk, or what kinds of words they use.  But I have completely erased from my mind and heart all biases based on race, sexual orientation, age, gender, or what-have-you.  One-hundred-percent erased.

No matter how fat I get, or how splotchy my skin is, or how bad my teeth are, I am an attractive man.  There’s just something about my face that you can’t resist, and the way I carry myself.  You can’t get enough.

I am an impeccable driver.