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Your name is DIRK.
Holy SHIT do you love PUPPETS.
You possess the extreme dexterity to operate your FALSE FRIENDS UNSEEN, that is, when they are not pre-ambulatory through your LOVINGLY IMBUED MECHANIZATION. You dig writing COGNITIVE ALGORITHMS FOR SAID APOCRYPHAL MEN, and you think maybe that's FUCKIN' DOPE. Guess what else is dope? Everything ELSE YOU DO. You're a sickwicked autodidact on ANCIENT CIVILIZATIONS, a selfmade MASTER OF MYTHOLOGUE, and a PRETERNATURAL POPCULTURE ACADEME.
If you weren't so DAMN ALOOF and actually let people GET A LOAD, you might get described all kindsa ways. Maybe tagged as a RENAISSANCE NINJA, PHILOSOPHER PRINCE, and FLASHSTEP PUPPETEER. Or perhaps a PANTHEONIC IRONICIST, GANGSTA LOGICIAN, LUCID WAKER and DERSITE SPY. Screw descriptors though, as if the shits you give ain't nil. You're cool with dabbling in the FINE SEQUENTIAL ARTS, and your work could be viewed by some as BORDERLINE PORNOGRAPHIC. And to those philistines you'll be heard wondering, what the fuck do you mean BORDERLINE?
Against the better judgment of one your age, you BUILD ROBOTS, SET THEM TO KILL MODE, AND SPAR WITH THEM TO DEATH. That is, when you're not SENDIFICATING THEM TO FRIENDS, or DUELING THEM WITH RAP LYRICS. But you try to cool it on the deathmatch stuff when your BRO is looking, which is virtually NEVER. And considering he's had a reputation staked on some order of MARTIAL NOBILITY, this strikes you as a STAGGERING OVERSIGHT IN BROTHERLY VIGILANCE. You don't have the HEART to hold it against him, though.
What will you do?
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