Guess what I discovered inside my zipper? And no it’s not my lady bits. I discovered those decades ago. Inside my zipper I discovered a patch. Not that kind of patch either. (You’re dirty-minded, aren’t you?) It’s a patch of fabric running vertical that says “lucky you.” Now, I bought these jeans over a year…
Note: This post stemmed from a prompt flashback to misery. I’m writing a book and it’s a shitty long look backwards. I mean the writing isn’t shitty, but the looking back certainly is. Memoir seems to be a deliberately-written exploration of a series of miserable flashbacks. Or flashbacks on misery. Flashbacks with misery? Flashback…
If you’re here reading this, then I’ve actually achieved something. I’ve accomplished some sliver of a 33-year old dream-in-the-making to become a writer. (I know, like we need another fucking writer. Especially here where I live. We’ve got more writers percapita than nearly any other state.) And a writer needs readers. Guess what? That’s you.…