Several times, random conversations have started, often food-related.
Because I am fuzzy and likable. And noshing on something.
If, hypothetically, someone had proposed this to me years ago, it would have struck me as a peculiar thing.
"Young man, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
"Fuzzy and likable."
Mmm, no. The future fatherly stern dictator of the civilized world is NOT fuzzy and likable. That isn't résumé material or dating profile filler either. "After several years of doing collection calls, business to business, and strenuously avoiding long romantic walks on the beach with a dog by moonlight, Mr. Atboth has become 'fuzzy and likable'."
[Oh, and half a dozen years pushing tobacco on the unsuspecting.]
Instead, I always pictured myself as Rambo-esque. If Rambo was like Albert Einstein or famous philosopher Sir Bertrand Russell. You know, calm, with objective judgment, at least half a brain, and not smelling oppressively of body building exercises and weightlifting.
Not a steroidal storm vortex.
Yes. Rambo. Slimmed down a bit, neatly dressed, and socially polished.
A well-scrubbed gentleman with whom you could converse.
But with all the instincts of a killer.
Anyhow, fuzzy and likable. Not even a dark and romantic philosopher king, or a mysterious and elegant vampire. Well shoot.
Next thing you know, people will say that I am warm and charming.
Or so they've heard. We can't have that. That way lies madness.
Perhaps I should wear a mask.
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