Who am I?
I'm a shroud wrapped in mystery, covered in a crunchy outer layer of enigma. I am shades of gray, I am black and white. I'm the voice in the back of your mind, that you refuse to hear. I'm just this guy, you know. Just this guy who knows that a while a man chooses, a slave obeys, that knows a man IS entitled to the sweat of his brow. I'm just some guy you see on the street, the one that you look at as you walk by, but there's just ... something about him. You don't know what. Hell, I don't know what. I'm just a guy who remembers the Fifth of November, because I can't think of a good reason to forget it. The guy who would rather die like a man, than live like a coward. And you know what? Who cares if you disagree? How dare you tell me who to be. I'm just a guy with some opinions, who knows the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm just a guy who's in love, with his car. I'm just looking for somebody to love. Who knows, maybe someday I'll find a strong, assertive girl. Just for me. Who knows? Maybe. I'm just a guy that once hated himself for staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring to prove I'm not alone. It didn't ring. All in all, I guess I could say I'm a guy that's starting to become comfortably numb. Not sure I'm okay with that, but whatever. Anybody who read this far, through my pig sty of a writing style, deserves a hug. Cookies for you.