How interesting that my Wu-Tang Clan name would perfectly define my hatred of dancing to music. I don't like to dance at home, alone, with absolutely no chance of anyone seeing me. It feels awkward. Wrong. Naturally I feel as if everyone is watching me and me alone and thinking to themselves, "Dude, you've got to stop. That is ridiculous." Suprisingly, I enjoy watching other people dance. They seem quite natural; almost like they're actually enjoying what they're doing. If I'm ever tricked onto a dance floor, the experience becomes like a Bataan Death March. Before it's over, I'm begging for someone to kindly put me out of my misery.
I don't think I have an artistically expressive bone in my body. I cannot draw, paint, or sculpt. I don't like to create art, food, music, crafts, or poetry. When I read books, I don't visualize the characters, places or things. I don't give voices to the characters. It is a cold, analytic reading of the text. I'm never disappointed when a book is turned into a movie because the characters always look and sound exactly as I didn't hear or see them when I read it. The movie always breathes actual life into the novel for me. It makes the second reading more enjoyable because now I have the visuals to bring the story to life.
Of course, as I'm sure you're all away, all of this is the exact opposite of the Suniverse; The Creator. Loves to dance and sing. Loves to cook and create. Burns with desire to be heard, seen, and felt. Never quite understood her attraction to me, but I try not to draw it out into the open for questioning. Smile and wave, Boys. Just smile and wave.
My answers to her questions three:
1. Greg. Being the eldest son, I have great expectations for all eldest sons. When they put themselves and their needs above the needs of the family and its younger members they are Douchebags of the highest order. You know what being the eldest means your entitled to, Pal? Responsibility.
2. I'd throw it in the fountain and wish for that coworker to die. If that didn't work, I'd punch them in the back of the head and feign surprise that it happened.
3. No one more so than Mrs. Rove.