I hate peaches.
I rarely eat humble pie.
I cry at the drop of a hat.
I cannot go near corn on the cob.
I still haven't learned to shoot a gun.
I have the curse of loving the unlovable in people.
I'm known to tell a bad joke in the wrong company.
I'm too nice to the Mexicans and the underprivileged.
I viciously enforce dinner and movie night on Saturday.
I have a bad Irish temper and a sharp, sarcastic tongue.
I sleep too well at night and do not suffer from low self-esteem.
I am frequently visited by a poetic muse of undetermined origin.
I've been seen with a boom box, outside, dancing to music with my horse.
I spend too much money on fresh cut flowers and can gorge myself on sushi.
I am a member of the Baptist church and at times quite irreverent.
I am guilty of pranks including 200 baby chicks set lose in a cheating boyfriends house in college and a box of manure sent to a sorority sister caught abusing a litter of kittens.
I don't deserve this well paid for honor, but more importantly, you don't deseve the disaster of me as Mayor.
My feet hurt.