I sometimes feel guilty about squashing bugs. I often give friends and family custom-written stories and poems as gifts; ask my mom about "Bobby and the Kangaroo from Hell: A Mother’s Day Fable." I've done freelance writing on film for papers and magazines in NYC and Hong Kong. My shoulders are stained with friends’ tears, but I don't mind, because they do the same for me. I’ve presided at two gay weddings, despite no official qualifications. I possess better-than-the-average-joe knowledge of medieval Arthurian legends, evolutionary theory, silent movies, Victorian ghost stories, the Donner Party, ape social structure and communication, and gender roles in the martial arts genre. I can't dance. I have a cute nose and toes and a sexy brain, or so I've been told.
I have a noticeable luddite streak. I think mp3 players are the vilest invention since the iron maiden, and I'm considering becoming a terrorist/freedom fighter to prevent the wiring of the subway system for cell phone reception. Someone has to make it stop!!
On a not unrelated note, I'm working on being more chilled-out and more accepting of risk, change and small annoyances in general. And on rolling my eyes and groaning less when I strongly disagree with someone's aesthetic tastes.
I like people who include one or two character imperfections in their self-description.
I was skeptical at first, but have found that answering those cupid questions or whatever they call them is addictive.