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I cried when I held a sloth in the Amazon. I’ve embraced my inner hick, and will never stop saying “y’all,” “pop,” or “crick.” I find fried okra and grits delicious. I’m incredibly impressionable, and have developed a Long Island accent for words like “orange,” “Florida,” “horrible,” and “forest.” I can pluck fowl, gut fish, and skin deer. As an artist, Thomas Kinkade is the bane of my existence. I am better than Linda Lovelace. I prefer the big spoon. I have an insatiable addiction to chapstick and Perez Hilton. Growing up, I raised a bitchy talking Magpie named Panini. My senior Homecoming dinner was held in my barn’s hayloft. Snowboarding, I once biffed a jump on a half-pipe and gave myself a concussion. Argyle is flawless. I can change a tire in under 10 minutes. I have a bizarre obsession with Southwestern kitsch, They Might be Giants, and Canada. Five of my seven best friends from high school are married. I am Halakhically Jewish. My dad is a shrimp doctor. Unagi (eel) is my favorite sushi. I have dropped my phone in the ocean, the toilet, and off a rollercoaster. I am terrified of blood, needles, snakes, feet, and public restrooms. I ate maggots in Brazil, ostrich in Africa, crickets in Myanmar, and scorpion in China. My dowry includes Art Nouveau silverware from the 1900s, a vintage ’68 Mercedes, a ranch outside of Yellowstone, and a cabin in Tahoe.