I believe that in order to tell you who I am, I must first tell you who I want to be. And what I really want to be is the steaming, twitching pile of flesh and teeth that would result if science ever made it genetically possible for Jenny Lawson and Kelly Ripa to have a baby--with a generous sprinkling of Megan Fox on top. That's the dream, at least. The reality is that I'm a school psychologist (or I was before they fired me for gross moral turpitude. If you're reading this, it has probably already happened.), and I live in the soul-stifling southeastern suburbs with my husband and our two darling little cherubs (or I did before he divorced me and/or had me committed). Though my punk-rock days might be behind me, I still dye my hair pink on the first day of summer break every year and pray that it washes out by August. It doesn't completely scratch my rebellious itch, but those judgmental stares in the grocery store do feel pretty damn good. I also want to be the type of person who stays up until two a.m., writing smutty romance novels, but instead, I stay up until three a.m., writing about my own deviant sexual history because I have no imagination. After one tiny REM cycle, I'm bitch-slapped back into consciousness by the sound of my alarm and rush off to work with my hair still wet and a travel mug emblazoned with some inspirational quote about the universe still on the roof of my car, my lunch still tucked away in the refrigerator where my long-suffering husband placed it the night before, and the belt of my coat vigorously slapping the pavement as I speed away. I'm what doctors like to call chronically sleep-deprived--or as my husband pronounces it, "depraved." To be honest, I don't even remember writing this book. No, seriously.