A devil, a saint, and a hetero life mate. I am the seventh son. I have skydived into Uraguay wearing relief supplies for a besieged village on my back. I am a lover, but I have fought for glass beads and the honor of a woman in an desert oasis. I told Kenny Rogers to fuck off and mind his own business. During the grunge craze, I didn’t wear plaid.

I was briefly the dictator of a small archipelago — I ruled fairly and won the hearts of my people. I have the sexual appetite of a rock star. Richard Stallman has slept on my couch. I appreciate beauty in all things. Critics acclaimed the modern sculpture I welded, to help a deaf friend see the beauty of sound. I am a classicaly trained chef, a revolutionary thinker, and a merciless advesary. I am not sterile despite the convenience.

Every 3rd Sunday I translate classic works into Braille. I invented a new filtration process for bourbon whisky, but didn’t patent it. I recognize the complex beauty of Perl. On a lark I competed in the Iditarod, and won the respect of an Inuit village. When recognized, I sign autographs.

I once defeated a corrupt bureaucracy using only my wits, and a metal yo-yo. My work on genetic mutation, in the evolution of the flying squirrel, was considered ground breaking. I am a convincing liar, yet I always tell the truth. I regularly bowl 300, and my “sweeping” has earned me international fame in curling circles. I have nothing to hide.

I have set trends, and bucked the system. Since Johnny Cash died, I have worn black. I can recite Pi to 7,572 digits, and I have discovered the meaning of life. I try to move like I have a purpose. Oh, and my nipples taste like Skittles (not the green ones, fuck those).