The Cynic

Nonconformists – perhaps my least favorite form of living creature. The very premise of who and what they are is built upon a lie. Their utter lack of originality and style is almost sickening.  If the societal waters flow in one direction, they flow in the opposite direction for the sole purpose of flowing in the opposite direction. The concept of actual societal revolution and individual growth is foreign to them. For they say “look, we are different – we aren’t like everyone else” when in fact they are being different to be the same. And on this wise I have made the assertion that some go with the flow and others go against the flow - but I prefer to get out a shovel and dig my own river.

You can call me Slipshod Barcilleo. That was the label given to me by my loving parents on the uneventful day I was born. But it works  considering “slipshod” means thrown together with leftover parts or unwanted things. And I suppose that little identifier stamped on my birth certificate suits me well. As an artist and mechanic I have an appreciation for unwanted things; me and unwanted things have a lot in common. But we can discuss that minute detail a little later.

And as for Barcilleo, it’s supposedly Latin in nature and by definition Italian, which means it’s from the country of Italy, which is some made up place full of hairless creatures called “humans”. I think my dad told me all of this to give me the impression that somehow he is actually worth something. In spite of this, I don’t really see the need to change my title. The few friends I do have identify me by that title and the time and effort required to change is not worth the trouble. On top of that it involves paperwork - which is the devil’s work.

I was born in the little town of Aiken. It’s a town whose primary populous is short-tempered earth ponies with excellent family values and social skills; but I’m being sarcastic of course. The home I grew up in fell a few miles short of a white picket fence with red shudders, if you catch my drift. But that’s another story for another day… or another year.

I’m sure you’re captivated by the fascinating autobiography of my exciting life thus far, but it gets even more interesting.  Already a ripe twenty years of age, in college, has a splendid variety of career options before him, and no cutie mark. That is correct. I do not posses one of those blasted things. You must be wondering how. After all, I already mentioned I am an artist and a mechanic. That’s only a few of the things I do. I do many things. Truth be told, I have a variety of talents with no one of them being the life-defining talent that predicts my future, my destiny, and all that jazz. And as for the cutie mark? I willed myself out of it. There’s no way on heaven or earth I intend on having a silly little symbol plastered to my bare hindquarters as a symbol of my purpose in life. If I can be a jack-of-all-trades and a master of everything, then I will never have to deal with such nonsense. And there is no symbol for OCD as far as I’m aware. How’s that for nonconformity? I suppose there’s no cutie mark for hypocrisy either. I enjoy being blatantly hypocritical whenever I’m trying to make a point. It gets folks confused and/or irritated. In a sense you could say that my cutie mark is my whole backside – because I’m an ass.

Well, that's my story in brief. It's what I am. But for all intents and purposes implied or otherwise, I'm just a horse with no name...