After careful consideration and with the absence of reservation, I've firmly decided that this might be my next bio. I think it says it all without saying much, and includes enough information to give grist to identity thieves.
But I leave it up to you.
I’m a literary stuntman, superhero for rent, yakuza of the written word and a cowboy in the boat of Ra. You can find me under S in the Yellowpages, but not under R. I’ve been to more than 50 countries, speak two Asian languages with pathetic currency, have dipped my toes in the Coral Sea, hiked the Great Wall of China, peed in the Danube, and played ping pong on Wake Island. I eat life in great gulps and only rest when I’m forced to. Given the choice to read, write, or travel the world, I’d do all three then shoot the man who made me choose. I’m a pacifist with a killer’s knowledge, spent 28 years in the military, and can break down a 50 caliber machine gun blindfolded. I like long walks on the beach, poems by Ginsberg, and would chew off my left arm if it meant I could eat Seafood at every meal. I was born south of Devil’s Tower, Wyoming with a herd of other misplaced Welshmen in the county named after my ancestor. I was raised in the pastoral splendor of Chattanooga, Tennessee, loved living in the cultural whirlwind of Los Angeles, and will someday spend my days in a perfect spot where the water is to my front and a mountain is to my back and my wine cellar is always full. Until then, I live in the Sonoran Desert where I wile away my days racing tarantula wasps, watching border patrol Death Race 2000 and the black helicopters dance along the horizon. Oh, and I write, too.
What do you think?
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