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25 • Conshohocken, PA • Man
I’m looking for
- Women who like men
- Ages 18–31
- Near me
- Who are single
- For new friends, long-term dating, short-term dating, casual sex
- Last Online
- Online now!
- 5′ 10″ (1.78m)
- Body Type
- Strictly anything
- When drinking
- Other, but not too serious about it
- Libra, but it doesn’t matter
- Working on space camp
- Relationship Status
- Relationship Type
- Doesn’t have kids
- Likes dogs and likes cats
- English (Fluently), Spanish (Poorly)
Six out of seven weekdays agree, I'm at fucking work! :(
I'm always getting up there a bit cooking-wise (more "proctologist-turned-heart-surgeon" "up there" than "nose-picking" "up there"), and am a fairly skilled drawer of dicks, a master debater, a pretty good sunfish sailor, and am an esteemed drunken conversationalist. I've also recently spent a year apprenticing as a custom cabinet maker, which left me with a number of manlyish skills such that you may actually forget just how little facial hair my soft girly face is capable of hosting. Aw yeah guryl, I'll hang yo drywall
Things I'm markedly *not* good at: Snapping my fingers (or anything demanding even a semblance of rhythm), accents, convincing my mom I'm actually straight (at least she doesn't take me for a manslut I guess), not listening to Pete Yorn when drunk, truly enjoying football, and hula-hooping.
For the perceptive: the ever-freshly burned and cut forearms, knife-hand calluses, and seemingly magical pockets of holding packed with fine point sharpies which are indicative of a fine dining schmoe in the wild.
When I go to a bar/liquor store, usually the impression is that I have some pretty good connections in the fake id community. I am all that is 17-year-old looking.
Honorable mention: my fly is open.
I fucking love Shogun by James Clavell, and ASOIF. Brand New. I sort of still have a lingering thing for Fear Before the March of Flames from highschool. I like getting stoned and observing cinematography. Of course I like Breaking Bad and the League. Jeff Buckley is lovely. Lately there's been a good amount of Okkervil River, Ryan Adams, and Nine Inch Nails up in this bitch. Arcade Fire the Suburbs, on repeat.
Food. On Food and Cooking is my bathroom reader. Lately floating around the coffee table somewhere:
1. "Basic butchering of livestock and game"
2. " The Forager's Harvest: A Guide to Identifying, Harvesting, and Preparing Edible Wild Plants"
3. " Emergency War Surgery: The Survivalist's Medical Desk Reference"
4. "Attack of the Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons"
5. " The SAS Guide to Tracking, New and Revised"
I'm not sure what the NSA has to say about my reading habits.
9 year-old me requests a shout-out for Calvin and Hobbes, Hitchhiker's Guide, and the Far Side.
I'm fascinated by ironic facts, corruption, and the ugly side of human nature. The ugly is beautiful to me, it's more realistic than shiny, pretty things. Hardcore drugs, criminal methods, government corruption, special operations in WWII, ridiculous dictators, espionage, and pathophysiology may all seem like dreadfully morbid subjects, but to me, learning about them is akin to the satisfaction of a quiet girl reading poetry in a coffee shop.
I like learning about those things, but more often than not, on long car trips I'm usually mowing over subjects like biotechnology/transhumanism, legal/social philosophy, technology (nano/medical/comp), eastern philosophy, ethics, and social sciences (oddly without crashing). It would appear that the action of shoving whiskey/wine and snazzy cured meats in my gullet is likely to cause rambling about all of these things in a significantly disorganized fashion.
Absurdism, humanism and buddhism.
"OCTO SOUP GNUDI, BOUILLA TILE BEEF SKATE L CAV HEARD"
If released into the wild, I will turn over rocks and poke things with sticks relentlessly. Semi-related, I have determined that I definitely can't smell stink bugs. Thank you genetic lottery in this aspect. Except for the crippling fear of never truly knowing if I smell like shit or not.
Whenever I stay at someone's house after a night of drinking, I wake up early and find a pen and notepad, and spend five minutes making a detailed dick drawing before hiding it somewhere in the house. Crisper drawer, tv remote battery case, keurig cartridge loader, dishwasher, etc. Don't look at me like that, I'm totally spilling my heart out here
Not quite a private detail, but an insider's one nonetheless, and something for the psych major's among you to soak up: I'm the youngest of seven, with one sister. Half my influences are sarcastic witty nerdlings, and the other half, worldly drunkards, and I love them all.
You want to lend me a GoPro I can strap on my head for a saturday dinner service, so I can be an artsy dirty hipster fuck.
"What's up" and "How are you" are deep, meaningful questions that have bewildered mankind for centuries, and I'm afraid I simply don't have the answers you seek.
Consider this a litmus test for humor:
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