“So, kid… I hear you wanna be a writer. Maybe someday you could write my story… I just gotta wait for a few people to die first. You should read The Godfather. It’s a good book.”
[Name withheld], Bartender, Las Vegas — Early 1990’s
People say — “Write what you know.” What do I know?
Life?
Life as someone raised staunch Arizona Republican, as someone who graduated from a prestigious college preparatory boarding school, as someone who dropped out of college, as someone who wanted to be an actress/screenwriter, as someone who rebelled from their hypocritical upbringing and moonlighted as a stripper off and on for nearly fifteen years, as someone who never wanted to admit to themselves that they had childhood sexual abuse trauma which caused them to live the majority of their life in a constant state of fight or flight mode trusting the wrong people, as someone who has done all sorts of crazy ass shit — but just not what “normal” society claims you are supposed to do. Do I regret it? Yeah, sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t, but there’s not much I can do about that now.
