He's got a foul mouth but his heart's in the right place. He puts his pants on every morning and tells himself that God doesn't make mistakes and that everything happens for a reason. He's a grade-A slice of fuck with a lot on his mind and even more on his heart but he's managed to meet some interesting people along the way that he's all but fallen in love with. One day he'll look back and realize that there's a reason to the rhyme, form follows function and that he wasn't nearly as deep or well-versed in the world as he thought he was. This life is a learning experience for him and he's reading between the lines in an attempt to suck the marrow out of it. He's just trying to feel around in the dark until he finds the light switch. He's the color of streetlamps and the taste of blood when you get a fist to the face and rain on the asphalt. He's a priest under the demigod youth and lives to serve her. She's branded him with ripped jeans, combat boots, Chuck Taylors, leather, vests and some pretty fuckin nifty headgear. His only addictions are Diet Coke, his friends and an insatiable urge to split the metaphorical vein and write, write, write until the life support fails. All he can ask of you is to come along and walk the road with him, some casual conversation, a few inside jokes and your thoughts on God, pop culture and American democracy. He wants you; he loves you. He thinks that this little piece of prose is really deep, and yes, he's referring to himself in the third person. What the fuck is up with that?