I am passilico, archedrious, and makingupwords.
I recently exiled myself from SF after about a decade as a magazine editor. Seems to be a cyclical thing. Spend a few years living twenty minutes into the future, then run away from it for a while. Already did mountain, island, and forest. This time I'm in the desert. I've been a lot of things in between, but this time around I'm a freelance writer and occasional wasteland bartender. If nothing else I finally got to scratch "throw drunk cowboys out of a 19th century saloon" off my bucket list.
I'd like to write a book at some point, but everyone says that. Kind of like how everybody thinks about becoming Batman. "Dude, if I had terminal cancer or my entire family was killed by the yakuza or something... I could be the most badass vigilante/novelist ever." Doesn't really count for shit until you do it. Which I haven't.
Also, I'm writing a book. The self abuse in the previous paragraph pushed me over the edge.
Writing, reading, messing with people in online games. Or on dating sites.
I set up a profile for Hitler. Found a fairly nice photo of the guy where his hair wasn't so greasy, shopped out the mustache, colorized it, and tried to answer the rest of the profile pretty much like he would, with only a few liberties taken. The guy turned out to be far, far more popular than me on here. There are few things on this Earth more horrific than waking up every day to a mailbox full of love letters to Hitler. I had to kill him.
Er, unless you happened to answer this with "my favorite books are the Bible and the Twilight saga." Not that one of those doesn't have a few good bits. Actually, I could totally curl up with Song of Songs.
My family. They're frustrating and I see them seldom, but they're my best link to humanity.
And of course I'd need something to write about, and someone to read it.
I'd like to be an iconoclast and not put "love" and "sex" here like everyone else, but yeah, love and sex. Went cold turkey for a while just to see if I could. I didn't die, but it wasn't fun.
Finally, a proofreader, who would tell me that's seven and put himself out of a job.
I can't dance. No rhythm. I need a metronome to masturbate.
Which wasn't intended to be a double entendre, but there it stands.