There are many things about myself that I don’t know. Of the things I do, these are a few:

I disapprove.
I don’t think that makes any difference.

I don’t think you can “find” yourself.
I don’t really know who I am.
I am the only one with enough balls to admit it.

I am the difference between being paranoid and a hypochondriac.

I am a cynical misanthropic prick.
I’m one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet.

I am jealous of your boyfriend.
I’m the best guy you’ll never fantasize about.

I am hung like a field mouse.
I have the stamina of an upstream salmon.

I like the smell of rain.
I’m not a big fan of the sun.

I think there’s truth in every story.

I’m more afraid than I want to be.

I have a dog.
I like him more than I like people.

I think the majority of guys are immature asses.
I think the majority of women still go for that kind of thing.
I don’t think either will admit it.

I’m tired of this.

I think you sometimes need to take chances.
I don’t think I do often enough.

I enjoy a fine single malt scotch.
I don’t enjoy being drunk.

I enjoy a long ride on a nice day with some good music.
I have to admit riding scares three kinds of shit out of me sometimes.

I’m disappointed by my punctuation.
I’m disappointed by yours too.

I am that much of a geek.

I don’t think patience is a virtue.
I think it’s a coping mechanism for disappointment.

I am not a breast man.

I don’t sing.
I don’t dance.

I look.
I don’t touch.

I know what I want.
I rarely know how to get it.

I don’t sleep as well as I used to.

I have two fingers in the air for anyone who thinks any of this makes me less than them.

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