Most people consider me to be a likeable a-hole, who always has something rude and ridiculous to say. I like to think of myself as a quick-witted dimwit who specializes in sarcasm and have interests that appeal to people with an IQ struggling to reach room temperature.

I'm creative, but self-conscious about my abilities. I'm proficient at writing code for multiple web programming languages, yet struggle to follow the most basic of baking recipes. My best dish is charcoal served with a side of fire.

I am a master at turning the most innocent of phrases into sexual innuendo, and spend far too much time pelvic thrusting and making suggestive gestures around my home, much to the amusement and exasperation of my long-time girlfriend.

I listen to loud, angry music, watch angry, violent movies, and have the eating speed and table manners of the Tasmanian Devil. I am a craft beer connoisseur and refuse to be seen in public, or even in private, with anyone sipping from a can or bottle with the word "Lite" on the label.

When confronted with a situation that may cause discomfort, I'll avoid it, like someone who hates children avoids answering the door at Halloween. I also hate children, mostly because they are walking booger factories who drool, mumble incoherently cry and poop themselves, yet when I do the same thing I'm asked to get off the bus.

Despite being very closed-minded and judgemental earlier in life, I've become much more open-minded and so accepting since I've gotten older. Mostly.

That said, I still mourn the time when having your skin covered in tattoos meant you were probably a deranged psychopath, instead of a bored housewife wanting to show appreciation for her pooch Mr. Piddlesworth by having nautical stars inked on her shoulders.

I am a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, stuffed with bacon, coated with cheese, with a side of ranch dressing and despair. I'm also nearing 40 and find farts to be even funnier now than when I was 4.