Some guy politely informed me that my Beats and the Monster energy drink in my hand made me look like a douchebag.
You, sir, would be correct. As I am a big jerk, that description seems apt.
What is it about my life that my randomly pieced-together thoughts and fleeting seconds of experience sound like they were crafted by a bunch of ex-frat boys and college virgins sitting around the writers' room table at 9:32 am?
I swear, I'm not making this up, or any of my other asinine "guess what happened to me today" musings, for that matter.
People say my life in print is embellished or enriched, but believable because I'm a writer, or at least clever with words. On the contrary, I'd say I'm a writer…or a clever wordsmith, at best…because my life is already a big, flashing neon sign. They talk about being born into incredible circumstances or being in the right place at the right time doing more for your name and your career than the actual task or talent you think you possess. I guess I could bracket myself into this category. I'm not a good storyteller. It just so happens that the everyday stories around me are worth writing down.
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