With a Zagat rating of 26, an average latency of 27.5 minutes, and an IQ-to-mass ratio of over 3 points/kg, I've been named a top pick in the sporty mid-size segment.

MBTI: INTJ, heavy on the I and light on the J. Constitutionally incapable of withholding opinions, allergic to half-assery, immune to flattery, drawn to intensity. Single-minded when excited, scrappy when threatened. I have a strict code of ethics which I've tried to model on the Kantian imperative. I'm an observer and a critical thinker, pragmatic and stubborn, slow to decide but quick to act. I live and think in the moment. I am munificent with trust but parsimonious with loyalty. I brazenly verb nouns and apologetically noun verbs.

Despite the intellectual vibe people tend to get from me, in a world without mosh pits, bar fights, or rough sex, I'd be one unhappy camper.

When I'm happy, I wiggle my butt. Credit to absentee friend GeekArtist for noting that my clothing frequently lacks sleeves and therefore I wear my heart on my ass.

My astrological sign is the salamander: I reject your zodiac and substitute my own.

Overall, I suppose that I appeal to a subtler and scarcer instinct, to a more recently learnt emotion, than that which responds to the sort of beauty called charming and fair.< /Hardy>

Here's what I'm NOT doing: raising kids, impressing parents, keeping up with the Kardashians, promoting political agendas, dropping half my paycheck on a haircut, praising Jayzus, wearing cheesy fake nerd glasses to attract fake nerds while riding my fixie to a show you wouldn't have heard of, making imaginary social commitments, saving the whales, or measuring my self-worth in Facebook "friends". And I am most certainly not living it only once.

Q: What do a writer, a programmer, a lawyer, and a bartender have in common? A: According to numerous people throughout my life, they should all be me.

Growing up in a dozen different places as a military brat has resulted in the default icebreaker "Where are you from?" becoming a pet peeve of mine, so feel free to increase your chances of sleeping with me by not using it.

I dance like everyone is watching, because sometimes they are.

When I grow up, if I can't be an airplane, I'm gonna be the Little Old Lady From Pasadena.

Pattern recognition. Gift-giving. Haircuts. I have perfect pitch, an unparallelled sense of direction, and the ability to untie knots with my mind.

Give me a bottle of vodka, a light bulb, a giraffe, and a shoe and I'll somehow turn them into a delicious mixed drink.

I am more than halfway decent at chess -- class C, if I had to guess -- and will pwn you at Scrabble. Crossword puzzles wring astonishing volumes of long-forgotten trivia from my brain.

I'm really BAD at:

Punctuality, card games, sudoku, perfunctory pleasantries (aspie tendencies run in the family and I appear to be affected), anything requiring above-average gross motor skills.

From behind: markedly triangular build. From the left: the upturned half of my lopsided smirk. From the right: industrial piercing. From the front: unflinching eye contact, firm handshake. From beneath: that I have climbed a tree. From any angle: tallishness, NPR voice with NSFW content, trail of Le Chocolat Ambre Chypre Palatin Donna Karan Signature, spontaneous dancing, assorted bruises of mysterious origins.

Online, the adjectives "smart" and "intimidating" appear with tedious regularity. Smart is a gimme, and I want to meet people who find me appealing, not scary.

The first thing I notice about you is our match percentage. Speaking of which: meet RedPresident, my roommate and highest match on all of OkC. He's like a big, cuddly, uncannily clever and somewhat insane guard dog with opposable thumbs; try not to piss him off.

I like books and movies that make sense -- whether predicated on history or scientific facts or simple coherent plot structure -- or, at the very least, aspire to do so. Seeing "sci-fi/fantasy" smushed together like a single concept makes me cringe a little.

Shows only have to be funny; sense is optional (though I draw the line at anthropomorphic fast-food items).

My playlists predictably channel my key inner personae: a mid-phase rivethead, a late-phase goth, an angry teenage boy, and an '80s butt-rocker.

For someone who loves food as much as I do, I forget to eat on an alarmingly regular basis. If my ribs start to poke through my clothes, please offer me medium-well steak, spicy calamari, mac 'n cheese, tonkotsu ramen, melon, bacon jerky, dark chocolate, Ralph's generic honey flakes, Wokcano wings, Dave & Buster's pretzel dogs, or anything covered with garlic.

Miscellaneous: harpsichords, earthquakes, water birds of all shapes and sizes, cheese, old books, inclement weather, German wine, burning hot showers, crystalline structures, head rubs, dessert-scented bath products, cobalt blue glass, my fuzzy dinosaur pajamas, and that little misdirected triangle of fur at the tip of a cat's nose.

Materialistically: air conditioning, shiny sports car, sturdy pair of boots , supportive bra, touch-up vial of my latest and greatest fragrance blend, and... fuck, I don't know. A towel?

Notice I did not mention lip products. I hate having goop on my lips.

Psychologically: intimacy*, self-expression, self-respect, occasional isolation, autonomy, perception of mutual understanding.

*Youngish geeky/nerdy guys click really well with me. Conventionalists of any stripe do not. Make of that what you will.

Know what I (and the rest of OkC) could absolutely do without? Dudes who brag about their bedroom skills on their profiles. This is 21st-century America; getting your partner off regularly is a basic human competency, not a magical talent, and acting all proud of it makes you sound like a noob.

How underrated honesty is; traffic patterns; the implications of etymology; the inexorable isolation of the human condition; the Vingean singularity. First-world solutions to first-world problems. Boys.

The incredibly narrow spectrum of socially appropriate behaviour, insofar as that only one (or at best a small handful) out of millions of possible words or actions is ever correct or expected at a given time.

What it says about our online community that we've gone from Myspace angles and shirtless poses to zombie costumes and fake mustaches as the customary way to entice potential mates. (Hip trend prediction for 2015: oversized bright orange rain boots and peanut butter smeared all over your face.)

- downstairs at Das Bunker, occupying at least 150% of my fair share of the dance floor, or

- embroiled in the nth hour of a Wiki-thon, having completely forgotten to get dressed and go out.

On Saturday night I may be:

- on fire

- jeopardising my life with spontaneous mountaineering

- meandering through Old Towne, "accidentally" knocking over woo-girls like bowling pins*

*Should I ever find myself in New York, I will not leave until I have knocked this girl over.

School night haunts: Equator, the Grilled Cheese Truck, the Jew-View, Kalogenic's couch (people love him on Yelp).

Oh, come on. The Internet already knows my kinks, body measurements, and where to find me on a Friday night...

I do not self-identify as female. Yes, I know how confusing it is to hear that from Such A Pretty Girl who wears dresses and makeup. But that's part aesthetic consideration, part calculated misdirection -- and now you know better. Proceeding to the logical conclusion, sexist forms of address = automatic fail. (This is an excellent tool to flag those who lack civility, reading comprehension, or both. Tread carefully.)

I have a severe startle reflex and a phobic reaction to being chased.

I'd rather read the back of a milk carton than David Sedaris, and the majority of art leaves me nonplussed. OMG HERESY.

On the ultra-rare occasions that they aren't cheesy or inappropriate, I find terms of endearment endearing, even sexy.

The fact that I play for both teams is no secret; I just really don't want to hear from the people who use it as a search criterion.

(Hey, old guys who gripe about age 40 being a ubiquitous limit: THERE, I FIXED IT)

Should you? Since there are automatic message previews, you only have about 8 words in which to demonstrate that you're not a spam-slinging mouth-breathing functionally-illiterate buttmonkey. My blocked/hidden users list is HUGE and each new addition gives me a frisson of satisfaction. And honestly, the more time I spend with shhdrawingarobot, the slimmer your chances of getting my attention.

...

Man, you're tenacious, huh? I guess you could give it a shot if...

- you noticed I did not select the "dating", "pen pals", or "casual sex" options.

- you're INTP or INTJ.

- you can communicate in standard English. ("The response to anything you say in textspeak 'because it's shorter' is NO, because no is shorter than yes." --yossarian_black)

- you are intelligent enough to be statistically notable (that ratio back in the first paragraph is real).

- you are NOT "laid-back" or "easygoing". Please, care about stuff. Be decisive and assertive. Going with the flow is so 2003.

- you aren't too pompous to indulge in unrepentant silliness.

- you can accept that I have no tattoos and give precisely zero fucks about Burning Man.

- you want to buy me a theremin, or help me build one.

- you don't have to Google "consensual non-consent".