He wears a beard sometimes. He might crawl out of bed at 5:00 and pour himself a Macallan's, but he will go to bed soon afterward. He does not abide a schedule and does not take responsibility. He will respect your physical property, but might assassinate your character. He acknowledges that none of his efforts affect the rotation of the globe, and adjusts his efforts accordingly. He is always cold, so he wears cardigans. He does not merely hate winter, he fears it. He will spend long swaths of time inspecting rollerball pens. He will ignore your calls because he has invested in caller ID. He is a little fuzzy on the rules of most sports, but excels at sarcasm. He is a proponent of the twenty-four hour clock. He does not respect baseball caps.
And more: he is grateful to be blessed with not-too-much talent, for most of all he pities those who dream in the face of guaranteed failure. Thus pitying, he spends his days in paralysis, eating cereal and reading your blog. He watches from the sidelines pretending not to know the rules of the sport, but has memorized the cheers.
He writes privately for you, dear reader, so long as you are a devoted sycophant. And he will work for food.
