I am socially awkward and don’t try new things.
I prefer quiet nights at home, but am currently homeless.
I am drawn to women who express love by keying my car.
Respect is overrated. I have never travelled and believe that books are filled with lies. I play video games, and expect
you to watch, then applaud when I clear various levels. You should know the proper names of all enemies in Halo.
(Please don’t go calling them ‘Orks’.)
Most women bore me, but I find them to be a pleasant diversion from the tragedy of human existence.
I have no plans for my future and don’t shower. I have few friends, and they are kept at a distance, because they
are only trying to get the plans for my flying machine. This machine is my life. You will financially support and
champion my bitter fight against gravity. I will leave you when I am famous.
I hate music, flowers, the beach, wine, honesty, candlelight, conversation, fairs, balloons, dreams, pastel hues,
pandas, laughter, spontaneous jaunts to the country, gentle rain showers and all forms of physical fitness.
All I talk about is myself. When I talk about myself in public – which is all the time – I do it loudly,
with a fake British accent. I treat waiters, waitresses and shoe shine ‘people’ with blunt disdain.
I don’t want to meet your mother. I expect quiet. You must cook. I will advise you on wardrobe and public conduct,
on the rare occasions when we leave home. And, just a reminder, it will be your home, as I am living in a box.
I believe in nothing. We are existential prisoners, marking time on the people farm until we pointlessly die,
at which point we enter an eternal void of all meaning. You should feel likewise. If not,
I shall impress this point upon you, daily. There are people within my immediate social circle whom I believe
are humanoid robots. I have written letters to the president about this.
I don’t watch football, because I know – KNOW – when the players huddle, they are talking about me.
I’m horribly selfish in bed. I have no interests except for my flying machine experiments and alerting the president to
the humanoid robots who are masquerading as people. I love TV. Eye contact drains psychic energy,
so I wear mirrored sunglasses at all times. I have one Yoko Ono CD. It’s the one where she just screams.
I listen to it at precisely 12.18 p.m., and 3.46 a.m. every day.
Upon our first ‘date’ I’ll expect a chart of your bio-rhythms. If you dip when I rise, we have no future.
Don’t fall in love with me. I’ll only hurt you.
Despite this clear warning, you will surrender yourself to me. This is because I possess the Magnetic Pull of Greatness.
James Brown was framed. Los Angeles is a refuge for our evil, inter-dimensional overlords.
Tom Hanks might be one of Them. There are telltale clues in most of his films. I shall show them to you. Every night.
You will take notes on this study, and also transcribe my poetry. I not only write but speak in iambic pentameter.
My themes are the futility of love and the fact that everyone is against me.
On Friday nights, we shall translate Season 1 of The Love Boat into German together.
Knowledge of 1970s German slang a plus. Should be comfortable walking several paces behind me in public.
To have no ambition but to serve my passions is mandatory. Should not wear slacks; I detest women in pants.
When I tire of your charms, I shall cast you aside roughly, in a public place, while speaking in my fake British accent.
Please be prepared. Your belief in love and humanity itself will be shattered. After dark, lonely,
painful years of extensive, expensive therapy, you will finally forget me. At that precise moment,
I will magically appear just to say hello.
Undecided about children.
