I am frequently spotted deep sea diving for treasure ships in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle. Using only a fork and a lanyard, I infiltrate and dismantle wasp nests. I lead tours through Urumqi and stop to allow tourists to photograph Rebiya Kadeer polishing off the remains of her lamb kebab. I am applauded for my insouciant behavior when faced with rabid hamsters. When boredom strikes, I create utopian societies. I am a celebrated epicure, a dentist’s nightmare, and a kid at heart.

I do twenty minute ab workouts in fifteen minutes, I arrange edible fruit displays, and I am the only person alive who speaks Khitan. I often send papers I have written about Michelangelo’s tendency to rarely take off his shoes to the staff at the Louvre to help them better understand the mind of a semi-hermetic genius. I photosynthesize. After spending years wandering the forests of the Olympic Peninsula, I discovered the meaning of happiness but forgot it while celebrating the fact that I had discovered it. My cells do not undergo mitosis.

My debts are paid, my shoes are polished, and my front lawn is thoroughly aerated. Critics swoon over the sound of my melodious voice and saintly piano playing. I finished writing The Canterbury Tales. On Saturdays, I read palms free of charge and act as a traveling saleswoman for hagfish skin wallets. Making chain mail is my avocation.


I am a disillusioned visionary, a hopeless romantic, and a relentless competitor. To relieve stress, I wrestle catfish. I manage time efficiently, film heart-breaking documentaries, and yodel for 2 days in a row every month. I have overcome gravity, I have gone pearl diving in the Tualatin River, and I have named all one hundred and fifty-one original Pokémon.


But I have yet to turn eighteen.