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 . . .
It should come as no big surprise that my favorite “F” word is fuck. I especially like this word when it’s dressed up with motherfucker or go fuck yourself. My fascination with the “F” word began at a pretty young age. I have a distinct memory of me running around the house, four or five years old, telling anyone in my line of vision: “Don’t fuck with the babysitter.” I guess I also had a fascination with Elizabeth Shue’s character in Adventures in Babysitting. Yes, I was a handful as a child. And, as most people in my life can attest, still am a handful. However, today, we’re going . . .
I feel like my last few blog articles have been heavy. No, I’m not going to make a fat joke here. Surprise, bitch! Yet, it’s obvious, and I think note-worthy, that I’ve gone kind of deep lately. Well, deeper than normal for me. No, I’m not going to make a sex joke here. Surprise, bitch—again! Also, get your mind out of the gutter. Actually, to be fair, in order to enjoy this particular article, you might want to keep your mind in the gutter. That’s your warning to skip this particular piece of content, Mom, Dad, teachers from the past . . . anyone and everyone who may not be overly excited . . .
I’m the type of person who beats a dead horse until it’s, well, dead. And then, just to make sure it’s really dead, I circle back once, twice, thirty-three times to verify. Sorry for the metaphor, PETA. Yet, you can rest easy knowing that no animals were harmed in the making of this blog article. In my previous articles, I’ve bitched about men, social media, phones . . . You’re right: At this rate, we’ll be here for a while. Let’s save some time and say I’ve bitched about quite a lot over the past two years. In writing, anyway. Yeah, sure, in person, too. Today is no different; I’m here . . .