Writing for money is an impoverished exercise in masochism. And, for some reason, I don’t think my Asian grandma vampire tragicomedy screenplay is taking me anywhere fast.
Guys. I’m 30. Holy shit. Prepare the lamb for blood sacrifice.
A freestyled massage poem.
I must’ve called a thousand tiiiiiimes.
Hey, bitches. I’m alive. And I’m perma-working from home, so get ready for some long-ass, rambling posts about nothing.
I should get, “Just because you have a sudden urge to weep, that doesn’t mean you’ve made a mistake” tattooed to my back.
There’s a party happening somewhere in my building complex. I can hear it through my closed windows. They’re probably chugging alcohol through their buttholes, but what do I know? I’m watching Moana before it leaves Netflix—who am I to judge?
“Are you okay?” my inner voice asked, as I shakily poured wine into an adult sippy cup to take my dog out for a walk. No, not really, but thanks for asking, Concerned Inner Voice of My Empty Being.
I’ve had several people from my Facebook fan club recently tell me some variation of, “You’re hilarious but I’m concerned about you.” A just concern, my dear friends, a just concern.
Well, as I shouted from my seat in the theater as Coldplay’s “Yellow” in Mandarin played over the final scenes and the credits began to roll, “I AM SO FAT AND UGLY AND BROKE.”