I just found the following list of sentences in an email I wrote and sent to myself on November 17, 2013.
I had been inventing a character who never made it into a story:
The kind of guy that drinks his coffee black because this maximizes the utility of his drink.
The kind of guy that purchases new running shoes precisely every six months.
The kind of guy that owns a bookshelf of poetry that ends chronologically after the second world war.
The kind of guy who thinks about philosophy all the time but never talks about it.
The kind of guy who went hunting once, crossed it off his bucket list, and never did it again.
The kind of guy who will tell you not to fuss if you spill something on his nice new jacket, but would stop at no lengths to prevent that from happening.
The kind of guy who only watches old movies.
The kind of guy who would make his bed, comb his hair, and vacuum his rug even if it were his last day alive.
The kind of guy who runs marathons while listening to recordings of the Nixon tapes.
The kind of guy who you know probably speaks French and Italian with a perfect accent, but couldn’t imitate a Southern accent if you gave him a lifetime.
The kind of guy who says hello to people he hasn’t seen in years, but that’s all he says.
The kind of guy you assume is busy with something important but you have no idea what it is.
The kind of guy whose idea of the perfect date is a fancy dinner with fine wine, a walk through town, and a kiss on the cheek before walking home alone.
The kind of guy who meditates for thirty minutes each morning.
The kind of guy who will look exactly the same at 60 as he did at 25, and then suddenly look aged at 70.
The kind of guy who greets everyone with a firm handshake.
The kind of guy who would not change his lifestyle or spending habits one iota even if he won the lottery.
The kind of guy whose favorite sport is tennis.
The kind of guy whose kids always get him a tie for Father’s Day, which he will not wear until his current clothing rotation is complete.
The kind of guy who doesn’t look like he can hear the music they play in the subway.
The kind of guy for whom high-fives are indicative of hooliganism.
The kind of guy who memorized all the countries, states, capitals, and demographic statistics of the world during his lunch break.
The kind of guy who meticulously examines the nutrition facts of every food item he buys.
The kind of guy who walks through graveyards to experience the atmosphere.
The kind of guy who enjoys squaredancing, but no other kind of dancing.
The kind of guy who volunteers at an ‘old folks home’ for fun.
The kind of guy who taught himself every instrument that ever existed but was never in a band.
The kind of guy whose favorite kinds of jokes are puns, and other than that he doesn’t laugh.
The kind of guy who can go hiking without making a false step, can forgo sunscreen without getting sunburned, and avoid bugs without bugspray.
The kind of guy who always says ‘no’ to his children, but gives them outlandishly extravagant gifts on their birthdays.
The kind of guy who puts Christmas lights on his house that only he can see.
The kind of guy who frequently uses the word “bologna” to refer to things he thinks are ridiculous or unbelievable.
The kind of guy who constantly identifies things according to their smell.
The kind of guy who uses tissues even when he has a handkerchief in his pocket.
The kind of guy who attends plays and art shows of his own volition.
The brainstorm didn’t go to complete waste however. Below this is I found another email I sent myself on the same day:
The type of man who is interested in a variety of subjects.
He is tempted by various distractions; alcohol, excessive or unhealthy eating, entertainment…but practices discipline.
He has a mission, and makes sacrifices in order to achieve it.
He pushes his body and mind in order to soak up knowledge, and within all that knowledge is a base and powerful drive to exert his will, to spread his message, to subjugate slaves into serving their true masters.
He stands on the shoulders of giants, his ancestors, the artists, philosophers, and kings of Europe’s once proud past.
He takes care of the little things, those necessities of academic success so he can move on to moving worlds.
He has a firm basis in knowledge, of mathematics, natural science, philosophy, history; all in service of the same spirit.
It is not hate, but love that drives him. A soldier does not fight because he hates what’s in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.
Beauty, inside and out.
Priorities permit the important things to come to the forefront.
Thou shalt strive all the days of thy life.
The first set of sentences come from a place of irony. There’s supposed to be something funny about the guy because he goes through various pretentious motions and has all the nonsensical quirks of an ‘aristocratic’ man seen through plebeian eyes.
But aristocracy isn’t sold on a separate supermarket shelf attainable by purchase…
Striving for perfection sure looks silly from down here. Give up, anonymous young-ish man! You’re taking life too seriously.