I'm attracted to the idea of a woman who wears a hat well, hates camping, finds poodles ridiculous, won't force feed me blue cheese and tolerates random epiphanies of ridiculous conclusions. Sometimes I hate making sense. Usually I make sense. Preconceived stubborn notions are necessarily unnecessary. I used to think life was about making appointments. I still do. One should always look forward to doing or saying something unique once a day. Just combine two words and try it. Adulterous potato. Okay, maybe not those two. Sticky rainbow. Today I'm going to take my shark for a walk. I'll probably start making sense in a second. A butterfly flapping it's wings somewhere across the globe probably means that a butterfly is flapping it's wings right next door. The glass is just half a damn glass. If you've made it this far then you probably aren't bored. Well, maybe you are but you're curious. This may be the part that I start making sense. I don't want to be bored. I want to be stimulated. The pitfalls of normalcy are all too insidious and tempting. I want to be challenged, though I may already be, mentally. I think I'll delete that last sentence. Or that one. Or that one. Or that one. I think a perfect date would be to just set a time. That's it. I hardly think saying anything is that important. I know everyone has had friendships or loved ones that with whom you could sit in perfect silence. I like to witness time and it's perfect banal euphoria. After seeing a good movie I don't want to talk about it. I want to see what life is like after you've been away from it in a dark theatre for two hours. Maybe I should delete this whole profile. Then again it might prevent the possibility and sublime glee of looking into your eyes and seeing dark recesses of potential poetry lit from a fiery soul's resurgence. You adulterous potato, you. So, in conclusion, I'll conclude that the only conclusion is the start of something new, with me and you.