Names are kind of important, right? Without names, what exactly would we call one another? Specifically, how would we refer to those individuals from our coyote ugly-type one-night stands who we're equal parts shocked and embarrassed to become reacquainted with in the morning? For the fools who haven't seen Coyote Ugly: A coyote ugly-type one-night stand is when you'd rather chew off your own arm than risk waking the ugly son-of-a-bitch passed out beside you. If you haven't had a coyote-ugly one-night stand, congratulations. Also, you're going to hell for lying. To be fair, most of us . . .
It's interesting—to me, at least—that I've been writing for about one hundred years now, and still have not discussed topics that are common in the gay community. Or aged . . . I haven't seemed to age in one hundred years, either. Thank you very much. That's not completely true. I've been writing since I was twelve. Back then, my content focused on murder and mayhem. Still does. Recently, I finished Bury What Remains, my latest psychological suspense manuscript, and lots of murder and mayhem ensue. Side note: If you're an agent looking for a new author to represent, allow me to take a . . .
I'm not entirely sure if it's a preconceived notion tossed upon us once we hit our twenties or just simply the gay factor, but for me, the idea of getting older has always been met with abhorrence. Specifically, the day, hell—the minute—after my twenty-first birthday, there was this feeling that I'd hit my expiration date. That's right: The milk had turned sour, the bread stale, the red lacquer worn off the bottom of a Christian Louboutin boot. I'm not exactly sure why, though. While it's been stated more times than Jennifer Lopez (who wasn't snubbed for an Oscar nomination for her role . . .
It's officially 2020, a new year—hell, a new decade! As if you needed my blog to alert you of the fact, right? Thank God for that, too, seeing as I haven't blogged in . . . Well, let's just say it's been a while. And while I'm acknowledging that elephant in the room, the one where I only produced three blog articles last year when it was my resolution to write at least one article a month (oops!), let me address another elephant: me! Yes, the other, much bigger elephant in the room is me, myself, and I. Unfortunately, yet noticeably, I've put on a little, fine—a lot—of weight. What can I . . .
As an adult, and I use that term loosely, I fully—kind of—understand that shit happens. By “shit,” I mean accidents. Off the top of my head, I'm thinking of accidents like forgetting to pick up your kid from school or drinking one too many Belvedere martinis at happy hour. You know, accidents no one can really predict or prevent. Then there are the accidents that can and should be prevented . . . like taking a big piss on my bedroom floor. Wait! I've gotten ahead of myself. Let me backtrack a tad. Do you ever get that feeling? You know the one: It's a Saturday night, you haven't been . . .