What I will claim, however, is that the diatribe I was kind enough to italicize for you above is simply a description of a first draft.
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I decided to let them light some candles and knock boots out of empathy.
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Certainly I am not alone in finding that international air travel is a bit…trying. It wears you down. Your head fills with goo.
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Firstly, I will take your praise for not titling this post, “Murder, He Wrote.” I also could’ve gone with the much gayer, “Murder, She Wrote,” but my queer powers are at their nadir. Something to do with the moon or fucking Trump or having worked sixty hours this week. Probably all three.
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I was not right the moment my alarm went off, and not just because of the existential crisis brought about each morning my iPhone screams at me.
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Please do not mistake me for someone who doesn’t value the hard won wisdom of people who are really good at this stuff. I’m not advocating style and content anarchy here.
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Booze. Boys. More booze. More boys. Sounds like my twenties. Okay, and the first half of my thirties. Also the late teen years. You get the point.
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