I'm actually misanthropic, rubbish, abrasive, verbally unfiltered when it comes about overlining any crap, brutally honest, perfectionist, compulsive, broody, stoic yet funny, eccentric, arrogant, hypersexual, melancholic, demanding yet lenient to the brim where people mistaken me as a laxist or lazy guy, ever-unsatisfied and self-depreciating.
Worst, I'm even most likely suffer of the higher end of the Genius Syndrome according most of the psychologists I ever met, which didn't help at all from being elected Mister Nice any sooner given the fact that people with such features tend to be most oftentimes much proficient about being out-of-pace with society than plain socially-savvy and my personal misfortune is that I'm actually one of the fewer who has undergone the two extremes of the spectrum multiple times in a lifetime, outlining my cynicism: you would likely hear me spoke the same about myself of anyone else while figuring out the possibility yet positive transforming change, hope, empathy or redemption, things but simultanepusly being struck down by my ever-expanding carelessness and lack of faith about that same "hope" . It's not easy to find ir ever maintain ant semblance of friendship with
I'm not a saint: I even spite saints because I personally know they are worst. I'm a sinner driven out every once and a while by pride, cupidity, sex and ambition. I act as if I'm superior to everyone because some part think he absolutely is and it's a burden. Some aspects and facets about me are naturally contradicting, passionate, cold, lovely, despicable, overempathic, sensitive, militant, free-thinking, old-fashioned: seeking for unswerving equality, loyalty and freedom yet unequivocally warring against each other for dominion. Every single rational-thinking individual is defined by such opposite wolves. I'm not here to expiate them Your Holy Highness, only to speak out about their tribulations as a mere observer or co-actor to the ludic part about women who burst out of their social and physical constraints. Ponderally speaking.
Call me John Smith, the Wandering Cafre: a storyteller who like to tell true awkward stories, a purveyor of the miscallenous, a Faust, a Trickster, a Tempter, a feeder, an enabler, an encourager, a lover and a fighter. Spawn from every river of Eden, bleed from the rainforest-sheeted foothills of the Mountains of the Moon, sired by forsaken mighty names of old, bred and raised on Iroquois once-holy land, a mystery after mystery after mystery... but NOT a saint.