*I'm not monogamous, nor monotheistic. I'm polyamorous not polygamous. (Sometimes I wish I were polygonal and polyamoral, but alas.)
*I'm just an ape that learned to talk and walk upright. Shhh. Don't tell.
*I'm, more or less, a godless liberal progressive socialist with a hint of libertarian for flavor. (Which you have to admit, is impressive for an ape. That whole empathy thing.)
*Bill Hicks would ask me to kill myself because I'm using my film education for advertising. (for mad scientists and ambulance chasers, but Hicks is dead anyway, so who is he to judge?)
*I wear wingtips and have almost entirely given up t-shirts. I also have weird hair and far too many sunglasses.
*Sometimes I fuck and drink (seldom both at once.) Honestly, I'm looking for activity partners. But if you won't write a letter or hold a conversation, then nevermind the fucking and drinking. (especially not simultaneously. that's messy.) That's a longwinded way of saying, I probably am in it for the sex, but not to say I'm indiscriminately slutty or shallow. I I like people who act like a person. And it's entirely likely I'll have no expectations and just want an outing with a novel person. Because that's also a thing I like.
*Sometimes I grow a beard. Everyday, actually. (see: condition of apehood above.)
*I've read many awful, stupid things that men send women and I don't feel like getting lost in the ocean of their misogynist ignorance. Go ahead and message first if you're so inclined. I don't always bite.
If you're still reading, here's the good stuff:
I chose a username back in the days when all the kids were putting numerals after words they liked. I had a better one but stopped paying protection money to OKC. So they beat it back into the ether. I don't know what rampage303 means anymore, so we have that in common.
Here are phrases used to describe me from time to time:
"Hey, are you [insert stranger's name here]?"
A strange Depressed Hippie / Upbeat Goth...
A dirty dandy.
"A lot of person."
A sapience of pure swart.
"A reluctant angel."
"The bee's knees."
"Tall, Dark, and Ridiculous."
"The most theatrical person I know."
"... Not a sociopath."
"...Just trying to get feminist pussy." To which I replied: "I AM A FEMINIST PUSSY."
Labels just never quite do things justice. Justice is vengeful and I'm not. I fancy collecting labels until they depict a meaningless spectrum. Have more:
Adjectives: Polyamorous, ADHD, XY, SNAFU, INFJ, Dandy, Artsy, Fashionable, Hedonistic, Solipsistic, Weird, Relative, Musical, Visual, Carnivorous, Virgo, Epicurean, Colorful, Black-clad, Comical, Terminal, Ignorant, Intelligent, Hated, Loved, Curious, Affirmative, Antipodean, Hyperborean, and a mild Graphomaniac. (hah, how can I even say mild after this many words?)
Cynical, Starry-Eyed, Self-Serving, Socialist, Secularist, Solipsistic, Scientific, Stubborn, and Slutty.
I'm staunchly anti-GOP and a queer ally, because the world deserves more fabulousness and vague lines of demarcation.
I "smell like a hippie." I bathe and my nose doesn't work, so I'm chalking that one up to the Nag Champa oil which apparently smells like gun oil. The most expensive and therefore "Best."
I'd like to model myself on a famous eccentric, like Emperor Norton, or Teddy Roosevelt but I missed out on the 19th century. A prime time for eccentrics. None the less, I'm trying to find a good old fashioned title for my calling cards. You know, like Gentleman Polyamorist and Discordian Pope*
*Long ago, in a far off, wooded land, I was made a Discordian Pope. The bard who wore nothing but a guitar and a green velvet robe asked of me
"You wanna be a Discordian pope?"
I thought about it, as we were surrounded by pagans, and I didn't wish to upset the natives. Slowly, I nodded my head with increasing enthusiasm.
I said, head swimming in a vile rum concoction I'd used to wash down the cake I'd eaten off the naked woman laying on the table. He raised his red Solo cup, filled with some fruity brew. He did half of the sign of the cross in the air between us, and finally said,
Now I am infallible.
I wear a lot of black. The uglier clothes get, the more certain I am that black and white dress clothes or nudity are the only correct choices. A Hell's Angel once told me that wearing black allows one to truly focus on the "who" of a person. If you can't trust a Texas meth fiend about such things, who can you trust?
Sometimes, I get mistaken for a priest. Sometimes people ask me for autographs. A couple of people have told me they think I'm one of the secret leaders of Tibet. I find that ironic, because I find Tibetan dogma silly.
I'd like to think these people are time travelers. If I cared anything about sports I would ask them who to bet on in ... the big game... with the teams and stuff.
I was born in Boulder.
People in Colorado Springs seem to think that explains something about me.
Which explains something about people in Colorado Springs.
I collect snazzy black clothing. Boots, hats, coats, belts, sunglasses, ponchos. They go with everything.
I'm not a slave to a specific fashion, just black...
(Why does that last bit not sound right..?)
Despite dressing to the nines, I've also found I look like a strange person in spite of myself.
What, people don't wear shiny wing-tips anymore?
It's sort of the Tom Wolfe principal of:
If you look nice, but alien everywhere you go, you'll fit in equally everywhere you go.
I periodically consider British citizenship to join the Ministry of Silly Walks.
Passengers in my tiny car once said that it forced them to confront their mortality. I've never been in an accident, and yet I seem incapable of having a car not covered in dents. Because the universe is powered with irony. (And I close doors with feet and stand on the roof.)
But alas, the little red jellybean of a thing is gone. In it's place, I have the official car of Boulder, a green, foreign, station wagon that even came with TOLERANCE sticker next to an Obama sticker.