Part-time poet, full-time furniture hazard. I spend my days crafting delicate verses and epic worlds in my books, only to ruin the "sophisticated author" vibe by air-guitaring so violently I lose a fight with my own wardrobe. I've mastered the art of jumping on one foot to a breakdown, though my actual coordination suggests I'm essentially a human pinball powered by blast beats.
​I'm the guy who can out-shred anyone on a guitar that doesn't exist, but give me six real strings and I'm suddenly a confused raccoon. When I'm not accidentally headbutting drywall or gaming until my eyes bleed, I'm probably headbanging to metal loud enough to rattle the neighbors' teeth. I'm living proof that you can be a sensitive literary soul and a total walking disaster at the exact same time.