Terminally bored chess player.

Robust opening theory, deadly at endgames, dodgy in the middle.

A bit gay, but horny for knowledge.

Hate yourself.

Really ham it up.

Cool sunglasses and hoodie.

Not really into drama, but willing to throw down. 

Fresh squeezed. 

Absolutely chuffed.

Gravy. Eggs.

Can't stand the Dutch.

Cat person?

Filth and squalor.

Fireworks and hurricanes.

Gold.

Extreme absorbency, almost gross.

The poet is waxed.

The moon is full.

Lobsters.

Sex on the beach, drugs on the moon.

Cloud storage.

Nothing in the fridge.

Petulant, fragile ego, like cheese.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
   The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
   The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
   Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
   And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
   The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
   And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
   The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
   He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
   Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
   He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.