If I was less goofy, I could maybe pull off pretentious.
My comfort novels remain (even as I age) any by Tamora Pierce as well as Jeff Lindsay's books about Dexter, the darkly dreaming serial killer.
I had a gothic phase that while I still appreciate, am too enraptured with colours to return to, as my hair can attest.
I do not appreciate homophobia. I love intellectual discussions, especially pseudo-intellectual, such as a debate on whether it could ever be possible for a creature to evolve with boiling blood that aids it in flight, and how would successful flight be maintained.
I believe in limits, but only those that you can explore. I've never found shame to be that helpful.
I have boxes of records but a broken record player, countless scarves & necklaces, cords & cables, and figures drawn on paper that won't come to life.