I've lived with someone for the last six years, through various levels and manifestations of commitment and monogamy. He's moving out in about a month, so I'm not really looking for anything serious here, though I'm keeping an open mind.
I'm a librarian.
I have a lot of books. I read most of the time. And draw. I like to make myself sneeze. I don't like to kill bugs. I pick my nose and eat the boogers. Yes, I really do eat the boogers. Not that I do this ostentatiously or in public, but still. Heads up. I've been doing it my entire life and will probably never stop.
I don't drink. Stop asking me if I want to go get a drink.
I am a junk magnet. I once left my Brooklyn apartment with nothing but a homemade bag, a homemade dress, a homemade wallet, and a sketchbook. When I returned six months later, it was in a VW bus full of stuff. It's not something I feel I can control. I collect cat whiskers. (That's them.)
I can be a little mean, but it's actually just a defense mechanism and I secretly feel guilty later. Also it's that 'ruthlessly honest / someone had to say it' kind of mean, so it's hilarious anyway.
As I get older I'm starting to observe more and more that the things other people care about are often different than the stuff I feel like talking about:
Them: Politics / Music
Me: Local history / Antique medical equipment
I have a moderate amount of tattoos, but probably won't be getting many more.
I sort of vacillate between wanting to punch people in the face and pet their hair. Please don't talk to me about books you've read or movies you've seen unless you've actually read or seen them.
I am empathetic, irritable, and self-deprecating.