Alright, I hate to be self critical or negative, but I have to be honest with myself. I would love to pretend I have been writing elsewhere. I would love to say that I diligently fell into my imagination every evening after leaving my cubicle, fighting through traffic and then watching a little Real Housewives via DVR. The truth is that I have only been leaving my cube, suffering through traffic and then watching a lot of the real Housewives (i.e., every franchise, including Miami) everyday.
Of course when I have a little wine I recommit to 30 minutes a day of creativity. I wax endlessly about my dreams of writing prolifically, getting published and then reaching the moment where I sit eye to eye with Oprah as I attribute my success to my devotion to the ritual of writing.
Well, I’ve had a little wine, and here I am, unsurprisingly recommitting to the fantasy of my writing ritual. what did I write about? My inability to write. I wonder which Housewives franchise is on tonight.
A tiger sits in the shade under a tree.
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I grew up in a sexist household.
Carl Jung and Psychology
Coffee, sunshine, and solitude. All I need now is a song.
Things look different when you look up.
Fine gentlemen of the road: Cameron, Beau and Columbus.
The spring waves left me bellybutton sand as they washed over my sunkissed body.
Rolando Street Fair, 2014