A couple of months ago, I had a thought. Looking back now, I think it was more of a moment of weakness, but the idea formed in my brain, and I took action. I decided to download Tinder, the dating app. Actually, in my opinion, Tinder is more of a dressed-up hook-up app (i.e. a fancy Grindr). That old expression, “putting lipstick on a pig,” feels like an accurate way to not only describe Tinder but the bulk of dating apps today. Maybe even dating in general, whether you use an app or not. (And if you don't use an app to date, what's your secret?) Still, I gave in and started swiping . . . . . .
Birthdays are interesting. Some people choose to celebrate all week long, craving the attention, begging for anyone and everyone to know their special day is coming. Others want to ignore the day, hide from it, pretend it’s not so special or anything overly important to celebrate. The rest of us fall somewhere in the middle. Of course, there is no right way or wrong way to celebrate your birthday. After all, it’s your day, right? And you have the right to act, feel, do, say whatever you deem appropriate—within reason, obviously. What I personally don’t understand is how someone can hate . . .
Back in May, I lit a match to my life. Things weren’t working out; I wasn’t happy. Change, though terrifying to consider and actually follow through with, seemed not only necessary but vital for my emotional and mental survival. As a result, I’ve been called everything from a pussy to a motherfucker to courageous for taking charge of my life and—as my cousin would say—hitting the reset button. Am I running? Am I moving forward? Who the fuck knows? Not me, not yet. Probably not any time soon, either. You see, I’ve been traveling. Ohio. New Jersey. New York City. Florida. Nashville. . . .
When I was in second grade, I was the Riddler from Batman Forever for Halloween. How fitting that all these years later, I’d be consumed by questions. Drowning, really, in what-ifs and if-onlys. Weighed down by hows, whys, and whens. Weighed down by riddles, if you will. After my first two crime fiction novels (The Next Victim and ‘Til Death) were published, I did a few book signings and was often asked the same question from attendees: Why do you write about murder? Yep, another question, and one I didn’t know how to answer until recently. Back then, I thought I chose to write in the . . .
I didn't come out until I was twenty-seven years old. Sure, everyone knew I was gay, including people on Mars. Yet, I didn’t actually say the words out loud to my family until later in life. To add insult to the story—or perhaps comic relief—I came out to my family drunker than shit at a female strip club. What can I say? I’ve always had a flair for the dramatics. I don’t know what had come over me. Actually, I do. I was miserable at the time. Miserable with the guy I was dating (though, he likely would have called it stalking), miserable with my job, miserable with not being able to talk . . .