For a cis, het, brutal son of Rome I'm wildly anti-paradigm: marriage is retarded, having your own babies is unethical when your species has overshot, and oil's about to run out (who wants to shop for shotguns with meee?).
I spent my twenties as a player, waaaay out here with a closed heart. Now I want connection and love. Intimacy. All kinds of gay shit like that.
Oh, and the mohawk's dead. I will prove significantly harder to kill.
Movies: Superbad. Spy Game. Pi. Waltz With Bashir.
Music: Think Queens of the Stone Age and Ladytron. And then Primus. They're beloved in this town.
Libertines and other species of naked chicks.
Fights, romance, and lust for life (caterozied as one thing, called Dgaw, on account of testicles)
The empirical certainty that improvement is plausible in objective terms, and we needn't live our childhoods for the entirety of our lives.
How shall I put this? Snuggs.
If a woman likes to be read to, or read to me, that's a plus, I've decided. I can live without that, just, you know, not as long.
I've lived a longish life and worked my way into and out of plenty of awful ruts and traps. I need a good life to be happy, but I will survive grim lack.
What I've lost that I care about regaining. What I can maybe look forward to.
I've never done well in monogamy, and while I am starting to settle down, go gray at the temples and shed my fomo, my intellect still favors the sound arguments against it. I do go deep and I do want to fall in love, even though it almost kills me every fucking time. Yes, you can be number one. No, you don't have to fuck my hilarious friends. Yes, I'm way too masculine. Yes, I'm very handsome.
You're a little handful with some extra jiggle. I'm looking for a savvy, hilarious, problematic lady who's in love with the D but works too fucking much to try and have the perfect body, because guess whose life that is.
Or you find me fascinating/have become a superfan.