Designed by Nathan Yaffe.
By Will Stephen
I'm an empty space, an absence. A thing that labors under the illusion of having a self... While also trying to, well, put that self back out there a little bit these days.
Hence... the profile. Do what you will with it, pawns of delusion and lust.
I don't believe in dates. You want to come over here and shoot the shit, see what happens, maybe fuck a little bit, then right on. Otherwise, scoot. Go find yourself a nice gentleman caller to listen to you bitch about your shitty work friends, buy you milkshakes, kiss your hand goodnight. Knock yourself out. But I ain't that.
Not a romantic type, but I know how to do a thing or two.
Married once. Came close another time. Laurie.
Futility. Death. Illusion. The last gasp of a thousand dying charlatans. Get on board, sweetpea. This is what I'm workin' with.
What I'm doing with my life
I live in a little room out in the country behind a bar. Work four nights a week, and in between I drink. Ain't no way to stop me.
Ex-cop. Still obsessed with ritualistic murder and rape. Just lookin' for a buddy.
I'm really good at:
Thinkin. Drinkin. Mainlining the truth of the universe.
Observation and deduction.
Beer can arts & crafts.
Bein' a sunuvabitch.
The first thing people usually notice about me:
The void. The shell. The Fu Manchu stache.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
Favorite implies choice, implies free will, implies you think mankind's more than a primal species trying to claw, and dig, and scrape our way toward procreation. Maybe "Ratatouille."
30 Rock, Colbert, same shit as always, what do you expect. Scandal's a crock of shit, but it'll do.
Imagine Dragons pissin' me off...
Bar food. Ribs. Who cares, it's sustenance. Nothin' more than hamster pellets dressed up in fancy clothes.
The six things I could never do without:
My big ass notepad.
A motherfucker to piss off.
A motherfucker to vent to.
A motherfuckin' partner :(
I spend a lot of time thinking about:
The cyclical charade of thought, action, suffering. The temptress of death. If I'll ever find "the one."
On a typical Friday night I am:
Sitting alone on a bare mattress looking at pictures of murder victims.
The most private thing I'm willing to admit
I lack the constitution for suicide.
I'm bad at parties.
I see colors and shit.
Time is a flat circle, but so is my heart.
I'm looking for:
Nothing. No one. Aluminum. Ash.
A cuddle buddy, maybe, I don't know.
You should message me if
You're willing to start your message with anything other than "Hey" or "Yo" or "Sup?" Come on. Ask the right fucking questions.
You wanna take a ride to Carcosa.
You have information regarding any ritualistic murders or rapes that may have happened to women and children in the area.
You ain't crazy pussy.
My Details (Box on the Side)
Last Online - I'm always online. I'm always offline. Same old shit.
Ethnicity - Human. I'm alive, ain't I?
Height - Tall enough.
Body Type - Skinny-Buff.
Drinks - Always.
Drugs - I've been known to chug medicine.
Religion - is a virus.
SIgn - The Black Star
Education - The books. The thinkers. The shit they shovel.
Job - Doin' me.
Income - I get by.
Pets - Parakeet.
Speaks - Words assembled in some sort of order to foster the illusion of "sense."