Are you a good judge of character?
I’m an introvert. I read body language better than most people because I’m not talking. I’m listening and observing. I’m rarely trying to impress anyone, so I’m usually sizing them up as to their intentions towards me.
I’ve had people do me favors and fuck me over. I’ve studied martial arts for years and had to anticipate my opponent’s intentions.
Working for years for both the best and the worst has taught me to read people. Here’s how I dealt with Executive Egos
Most of all, I’ve been married for decades and have kids. I’ve never been more surprised by that than anything.
So yes, I’m a good judge of character because I’m patient and won’t jump to conclusions.
Once I’ve decided who you are, though, it’s hard to move me off of that position, especially if I think you are an asshole. This includes family. I can spot a fake like a Jedi.
Delusions of Adequacy 
Hard to say . . . some of my oldest and closest friends from high school have become boring assholes deserving none of my time or attention.
One of my oldest friends from the Navy, FatJack, was a bit of an enigma. Loud, obscene, profane, not particularly hygienic, self-destructive, and on occasion blasphemous.
Had that knack, that aura, that charisma that allowed him to tell the filthiest joke at the wrongest time and you found yourself laughing at it, along with everybody else. Had pet names for most of his associates . . . mine was “Dickhead” . . . none of which were complimentary or suitable for polite discourse.
He called one of our mutual friends “Broke dick” and another “Faggot.” One guy he insisted on naming “Liz” . . . never knew why, but he accused the guy of being a switch hitter — a tag I never saw evidence in proof of. Once accused a young priest we knew of being a parasitic threat to the city’s food supply.
When we were young E-5s in electronics school, he had nicknames for all our CPO instructors — “Jolly Red Giant,” “Chief Shit-for-brains,” “Khaki Twit,” “Peckerhead,” and so on. No idea why they tolerated his attitude, which bordered on contempt, but they apparently liked him. You just didn’t talk to Navy Chiefs the way Jack did, but he got away with it.
EVERYbody liked him. He drank to excess, smoked to excess, cussed to excess, but knew how to read an audience, how to tell a story, how and when to flash a smile or buy a round of drinks to disarm an offended victim reaching for his sword. He also was a very good professional drummer, so there was that unimpeachable talent to fall back on when he’d gone too far.
I’ll never understand how he was allowed to remain on active duty and finally retire as a Chief Petty Officer. He never looked good in his uniform, smelled stale, smoked constantly, and was always well outside standards for height-weight. Airline stewardesses liked him, BTW — bad-boy/drummer syndrome, I guess.
Jack developed type-II diabetes after he retired from the USN. Also came down with emphysema. Still, he had what amounted to his private stool at the bar in a lotta places, drank beer every day, and smoked over 2 packs a day until he finally died about 6 years ago. Just hadda do it “his” way.
I was drawn to the guy, the embodiment of that kid every mother tells her son to stay away from. Dirty, nasty, sacrilegious, sarcastic, unkempt, dangerous, self-indulgent scoundrel. But I liked him, and he never did anything wrong to me other than with his need to insult, degrade, embarrass, and belittle those who sought his company.
Both his children died tragically, and he told me during one of our rare fone conversations after he withdrew into a beer keg that he named me in his will for the purpose of using the sale of his possessions to establish a memorial brothel in his name, preferably in Tijuana.
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