I’m a writer with nothing to write about

Except dancing on an Alphabet City bar stage to Salt n Pepa, posing outside of Irish Exit because “we’re 21 now…wait, we’re 23,” losing the head of a screwdriver to the cork on the inside of a wine bottle, and that guy from OKCupid who said, “If you were a triangle, you’d be acute one.”

Before or after thanking the bartender for letting us in at 19. You decide.

Before or after thanking the bouncer for letting us in at 19. You decide.

Okay, okay. I have a ton to write about, but life/Lord Scott Disick has been throwing curveballs in the form of four-hour open bars, 15-hour work days, 24-hour stomach bugs and a vicious cycle of never-ending Netflix queues.

And I’ve been a little weepy. It is baseball season, right?

Consider this a “To Be Continued,” with tales of life, (perusing dating websites for) love, meeting an old friend’s four-week old baby for the first time and a five-year high school reunion (YEP. THAT’S A THING.) to come.

Cheers (I’m not dead, just a little busy living).

1 Comments on “I’m a writer with nothing to write about”

  1. Oh, my, if you have to write, meaning publish, unlike that private journal … sometimes the advice is to translate, from long tongue to another. Or my advice would be to review books you think deserve attention … especially in the self-published, indie, ebook vein I’m pursuing.
    Just to say, all these years later. Best of luck.

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