I am a dynamo made from a broken mold, frequently seen going twice around a round-a-bout and playing high-stakes Monopoly on a travel board. I have been known to make glorious multi-course meals in thirty minutes or less, to race both horses and dune-buggies on my lunch break, and to woo patrons of the local pub with my powerful piano rendition of “In da Club”.

I translate colloquial profanities into overly formal French, I compose locally acclaimed knock-knock jokes, and I get hiccups every time my food is both spicy and hot. Years ago, discovered the answers to the most impenetrable philosophical dilemmas at the bottom of a Red Bull can, but I was interrupted by heartburn before I could jot them down.

I am an expert in interpersonal negotiation, a hopeless romantic, and a wanted woman in the Faroe Islands for the misplacement of a postage stamp. Once, I adopted a cocker spaniel to whom I assigned over fifteen nicknames; he only ever responded to the sound of a Beggin’ Strips bag opening.

Neighbors have called me flagrantly wanton for bartering five minutes of wifi for a view of my ankle. But I consider myself a feminist, as I once set my own bra on fire cooking a flambé and just assumed that the universe was trying to speak to me. Coffee accounts for at least 30% of my personality. I’m suspiciously flexible and dangerously clumsy. And I hope to one day worship something the way women in commercials do high-fiber yogurt.

Lastly, I’m an artist, a truth-seeker, a dual-citizen, and a convivial shopping companion. I prefer my puns intended. I can wink only with my left eye. And I will stop any task, no matter how imperative, to say hi to a dog.