First of all, I have no place in nature. Ever. Even when I was a kid. My mother can debate this all she wants. My dad? He knows. I was always in a hammock in camping trips, reading a book because hell no. 

Sunburns, fish smell, animals in the night, squirrels (I HATE THEM), mosquitos, peeing in the woods (oh, because, you know, squatting and balance are a hobby of mine), heat, heat, heat, heat. I. Hate. Nature. I’m the fat kid in “The Goonies.” Oh my god – and snakes. Friggin’ snakes.

If life were the Oregon Trail, I would have died of typhoid fever.

Before we even left.

I would have never have boarded the Mayflower.

My British Ancestor: Hell. No. (Photo: Rebecca Lowe, Getty Images)

Times I have been attacked by a chicken: 2

First time: I was about four or five-ish at my great-granparents’ farm on Thanksgiving. They were the owners of one mean mutha of a rooster. My cousins and I were playing near the hen house when this little bastard came out and starting chasing us. The others got away. Me? I wasn’t so lucky. He came for me, running and pecking at my ankles……..

Second time: a rogue chicken literally just showed up one day and claimed a stake in between our yard and my grandparents’ yard. Unfortunately, that was my bike route. It chased me. Every damn day. Why the hell do chickens hate me so much? To this day, whenever I eat chicken, I savor in my silent victory. Peck at my feet? Chase my bike? Bitch, please. I’m eating your relative, covered in hot wing sauce and dipped in Bleu Cheese dressing.

Alongside the chicken theme, for some GOD AWFUL reason, my parents decided to raise chickens when I was in elementary school. And I went out there once, ONCE, to get eggs. NEVER AGAIN. My other bad luck with birds: I worked in the Special Pets section of a pet store in which I had to retrieve birds from one of those giant cages. And every now and then, I had one of those friggin’ jokers who, although most of the birds looked exactly alike, refused to believe it and wanted one specific one. So I would spend about thirty minutes, with gritted teeth, with my elbow deep in vicious pecking canaries trying to grab a bird without squeezing it to death. And don’t get me started on the $3500 parrot that I know for a fact would whisper my name when no one was paying attention but me.

Times I have sustained injuries resulting in a trip to the emergency room: 1 (surprisingly)

Times I have almost stepped on a scorpion: 1

Times I have been on a nearly fatal albeit memorable float trip: 1*

Times I have been pursued by squirrels: too many to count

*okay, so it may have been sort of my fault when I fell/jumped off the raft and it started to deflate but also partly the company we used since they didn’t put safety caps on the valves to keep stuff like that happening. shut up.

I don’t mow lawns. I had a garden once. I lost all interest immediately. I think I’ll stick to admiring the outdoors…….from inside.