My name is Cooper. My hands don't work and I talk about myself, and personal stuff, far too much. I'm basically an intellectually disabled puppy. There's nothing wrong with me. I don't track my tag, I'm terrible at responding to messages, and I'm prone to attack when provoked. Don't poke the bear.
Horse trainer. Rock climbing instructor/backpacking trip head honcho/woofer (wilderness first responder). Master of all things adventure related. No ego involved at all. Terrible and occasionally sacrilegious Irish catholic. Certified MRA hunter: Saving non-cis people. Burning fedoras. The family business.
My name is Cooper. My hands don’t work.
23 years old, native Northern Virginian.
College student. Lush salesperson. Scientist. Ginger.
Rapid cycling bipolar. Questionably gendered but certainly not cis (currently referred to as apathetically-gendered until I figure out what I am), please refer to me by the pronouns “they” or “them” unless you are told otherwise directly by me. You’ve been warned. Pansexual. Extreme extrovert. Surprise social justice warrior and misandrist. Loves making mean people uncomfortable and trolling. It is one of my life goals to be able to gleek on demand. Certified MRA hunter: Saving non-cis people. Burning fedoras. The family business.
That is me. This is my face after getting in a “fish fingers and custard” fight.
This is my face in Centralia, Pennsylvania, with a headless doll:
This is my face in the bathroom:
This is my face with a mustache:
And this is my philosophy towards life:
And I guess that’s it for now.