Josh Gunderson's Blog, page 3

Swifties, We Need to Talk: Taylor Swift Doesn’t Owe Us Anything!

Josh’s Note: The pollen count in Florida was off the charts when I wrote this and, as a result, I was popping my allergy medicine like it was candy so… this is probably the most unhinged and chaotic thing I’ve written in a while and I regret nothing.

Hey there, fellow Swifties! Grab your snake rings and shake off that folklore cardigan because we need to have a heart-to-heart about our queen, Taylor Swift, and the recent hullabaloo over her Eras Tour Concert Film rental fee. Spoiler alert: she doesn’t owe us a thing, and here’s why.

So, picture this: Taylor Swift, our musical sorceress, drops the bombshell that she’s releasing the Eras Tour Concert Film in theaters. Then it leaves the theaters, BUT WAIT! Now it’s coming to our living rooms! Naturally, the Swiftie universe collectively loses its mind. But then, like a dark cloud looming over our glittering wonderland, the complaints roll in. “$19.89 to rent? And only 48 hours to watch? What kind of sorcery is this?” they cry.

Let me break it down for you, my friends. First off, that $19.89 (ha, see what she did there with the clever reference until tax gets added) is a small price to pay for a front-row seat to the magic that is Taylor Swift’s tour. Yes, it’s a rental fee, and yes, it’s only valid for 48 hours, but let’s not act like she’s charging us to enter a secret Swiftie society. It’s a business move, and spoiler alert number two: Taylor Swift is a business.

Now, I get it. Money is tight for many of us. The struggle is real, and we’re all out here adulting like pros. But folks, let’s not forget that Taylor Swift isn’t just the gal who writes anthems about our exes. She’s a mogul, a queen, a musical genius who reached billionaire status this year. Do we envy her? Maybe a smidge. But that doesn’t mean she owes us a free pass to the Eras Tour Concert Film.

And let’s not forget the collective amnesia about Taylor’s generosity. Remember when she was sliding money into Swifties’ pockets during the pandemic? She didn’t have to do that, but she did because she’s not just a pop star; she’s a human with a heart of gold. So cut her some slack, and remember the good vibes she’s sent our way.

Now, as someone who may or may not have winced a little at the $20 price tag, I still happily paid my Taylor Swift Toll. Why? Because, my friends, it’s not a necessity. I’m not out here sacrificing my avocado toast budget to watch Taylor perform on the big screen. I made a conscious choice, cracked open a bottle of wine, and let the Swiftie magic take over. 

FOR THE RECORD: Kam Saunders and Sam McWilliams are both national treasures that should be protected at all costs.

Sure, I missed out on the live tour because I was adulting hard and bought a house instead. And I had to watch a few times now as merch I would have loved to get my hands on slipped through my fingers. Priorities, people! But Taylor Swift doesn’t owe me an unlimited pass to watch the concert on repeat. She’s out there, still touring, still killing it, and still making those coins.

So, let’s raise a glass to our girl, Taylor. Let her secure that bag, slay the charts, and continue being the legend she is. She owes us nothing, and we owe it to ourselves to remember that we’re spending our money because we want to, not because we have to. Now go out there and get that bread, Taylor!

New Year, Same Mess

This morning I discovered the real reason why you shouldn’t scroll social media first thing after waking up in the morning. Sure, there are psychological reasons for it but the cleanliness of my home and good fortune in the new year have been put in jeopardy by scrolling through Facebook upon starting my January 1st.

Because the 1st fell on a Monday, I had a three day weekend to enjoy. I ended up sleeping through most of Saturday because my body decided it was so. I didn’t wake up until around 2pm when (surprise, surprise) I got a work call. I opted for a lazy day and I have zero regrets about that.

Sunday was equally as low-key. I ran a singular errand to ensure I had some food in the house and then relaxed and got to work on some ideas for new books that I want to write. For anyone keeping track, I currently have 8 books in progress because my ADHD is real.

The point is, not a lot of productive things happened around the house. My normal M.O. for weekends is to relax on Saturday and do the more productive stuff (laundry, meal prep, cleaning) on Sunday. When it comes to these random 3-day weekends, I move everything to Monday.

So I woke up this morning with these amazing, grand plans to clean up and get ready for the short week ahead. Lo and behold, the universe has different plans in mind.

As I’m scrolling through Facebook and Instagram, I stumble upon a meme that shakes me to my core- apparently cleaning on New Year’s Day is a one-way ticket to a year of bad luck. Seriously, universe? I can’t even Marie Kondo my way into prosperity?

Then I did a deep dive into the internet to learn about this superstition/tradition and here’s the kicker: No, no, my friends. It’s the kind of cleaning that involves sweeping away all the dust bunnies, scrubbing the floors until they sparkle, and, God forbid, changing the cat’s litter box. Yes, you read that right. My feline overlord’s throne was in desperate need of a royal refresh, but suddenly, I found myself questioning if I was about to flush my good fortune down the drain – or, in this case, the litter box.

So I sat there, staring at Burger with a mix of guilt and uncertainty. Could a cat’s unhappiness be the harbinger of doom for my entire year? The stakes had never been higher as I grappled with the decision to either ignore the superstition or risk becoming the protagonist of a feline-driven apocalypse. (That actually sounds like a fun book idea… let me jot that down). 

And then there were the dishes – a mountainous pile of plates, cups, and silverware that served as a stark reminder of my culinary endeavors from the night before (and the entire weekend to be honest). I couldn’t possibly start the year with dirty dishes, right? But what if washing them meant washing away my chances of financial success and good fortune?

To add to the chaos, there’s the forgotten load of laundry languishing in the dryer from last weekend. The socks and shirts looked at me accusingly, as if to say, “You can’t possibly fold us on New Year’s Day, can you?” Well, can I? Is it written in the cosmic rulebook that unfolded laundry is the ultimate jinx?

So now I sit here in my cluttered living room, torn between the fear of inviting bad luck and the undeniable need for cleanliness, I can’t help but wonder – is 2024 the year of domestic dilemmas? Am I destined to live in chaos to avoid tempting fate?

I did change the litter box because it would not have been pretty if I hadn’t. Otherwise, I’m sitting here wondering what I can and can’t do to ensure that 2024 isn’t a repeat of the weird hell-scape that was 2023.

Well, that’s not fair. 

Ugh, I’m going to turn into a broken record because I feel like I write the same thing at the beginning of every year. I know not to focus on the bad because when you look at all the good, it more than likely outweighs that bad. But when the last four months have felt like a non-stop shit storm, it’s hard to remember that good things happened.

So here’s to me ignoring the pile of laundry, dishes, and dust bunnies and hoping that cleaning the cat box didn’t displease the overlords of the new year.

A Christmas Story: Not a Jolly Tale for Everyone

It’s Christmas Eve and it’s got me feeling some kind of way. I’ve never really been big on the holiday, even as a kid, it always stressed me out. I hated having to open presents in front of everyone. I don’t know why but it stressed me out. I remember asking one year if I could just take all the presents to my room to open.

There are some questions that I hate around the holidays mostly because people don’t like my answers. It seems to baffle people’s minds that I have zero plans for Christmas. It’s supposed to rain tomorrow so my plans to hit up Universal are likely shot but I’m also a-okay with getting some stuff done around the house with my bonus day off.

There’s also the question of what movies to watch around the holidays. I’m pretty sure I’ve covered it before- Krampus is my go-to Christmas Eve movie.

For many people, the perennial favorite is “A Christmas Story.” However, for some of us, the mere thought of this film brings back memories of a time when the holiday spirit was far from heartwarming.

It’s not so much the movie itself, but rather the painful associations it holds. 

For those fortunate enough to still have cable, TNT’s 24-hour Christmas Story marathon is a staple of the holiday season. It’s a continuous loop of the same film, playing from 8 pm on Christmas Eve until 8 pm on Christmas Day. If that sounds like a cinematic nightmare, you’re not alone in thinking so. Our former stepfather, in all his questionable glory, insisted that this movie be the soundtrack to our Christmas celebrations—watched nearly all 12 times throughout the marathon.

Now, it’s essential to clarify (again) that my aversion to the movie isn’t a commentary on its quality. I’m sure it’s charming and delightful for families whose memories aren’t tainted by the presence of a wildly narcissistic mother and an abusive stepfather. The truth is, we associate “A Christmas Story” with the toxic environment we found ourselves in during those years. It’s a painful reminder of a time when safety and joy were elusive concepts.

Anyone who has experienced trauma knows that certain triggers can transport you back to those dark moments. For me, it’s not just this movie; it’s certain songs, TV shows, and even books that we can’t bear to engage with. These are the emotional landmines that transport us back to a place and time where fear overshadowed festivities.

Now, you might find it intriguing (or perhaps alarming) that my go-to Christmas Eve movie is “Krampus.” Yes, the dark and fantastical tale of a Christmas demon wreaking havoc on a dysfunctional family is my Yuletide comfort. Psychologists, feel free to analyze that one. Perhaps it’s my way of reclaiming the holiday spirit with a touch of twisted humor—a cathartic counterbalance to the saccharine sweetness of more traditional Christmas fare.

So, as the debates over which Christmas movie to watch rage on in living rooms across the country, spare a thought for those of us whose holiday traditions come with a side of trauma. If you’re ever tempted to question our unconventional choices, just remember that sometimes, the most healing holiday moments are found in the unexpected and the unconventional.

Send in the (Taylor Swift) Clowns

I can’t sleep so y’all are getting a completely random blog post and I will not apologize for it. Seriously, I’ve been awake since 4am, it’s not 6am, my alarm is going off at 7am and this won’t post until 7pm.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I’m a late in life Swiftie. When she first hit the scene, I didn’t quite understand the appeal. I also wasn’t the biggest country fan having grown up listening to way too much country and the genre annoyed more than entertained me. I will admit that the pop version of Teardrops on My Guitar did win me over at one point.

I did dabble in the Speak Now era and somehow missed the Red album entirely. The year I moved to Florida, we were blessed with 1989. I ended up grabbing a copy of the CD at Target and it fell into my regular rotation of music in my car and eventually on my iPod. (I acknowledge that EVERYTHING about this paragraph makes me old as hell.)

For those who have been following me for a while know that in 2015 I had the world’s weirdest 15 minutes of fame during Halloween Horror Nights. I started posting pictures from the event with lyrics from Taylor Swift as the captions. It started as a joke and quickly turned into a mission for no reason whatsoever. I ended up walking around the event with my headphones in (connected to my iPod because I’m still old) listening to Taylor Swift for caption inspiration. 

I don’t think I can truly pinpoint the moment I became a Swiftie but it sure did happen. My biggest problem with being a newfound Swiftie is that I didn’t actually own any physical copies of her music other than 1989 (and I have no idea where that CD is as I’ve moved twice since I bought it). So I listen to it on Apple Music (look ma, no more iPod!). 

I won’t go into the whole “stolen version” / “taylor’s version” thing here but I’m nothing if not loyal to Miss Swift. So I make sure to only listen to music that she owns.

I’ve been loving the re-recordings because they’ve given me a chance to fall in love with Taylor Swift in the way that Day-One Swifties had all those years ago. [see: My Second Chance at Falling in Love with Taylor Swift (Even Though She’s A Zombie)]. She also managed to get me to buy vinyl. 

Yep, I’m a vinyl guy now. I just bought a new record player. 

This is actually the first time I’ve bought a record player despite it being the third one I’ve owned. This has nothing to do with anything but I think it’s a fun fact. I might not know what “fun” is anymore.

All of this is just a REALLY long winded way of saying that I was REALLY hoping for a Reputation (Taylor’s Version) announcement the other night. Like the rest of Swiftie-Nation, my eyes were glued to someone livestreaming a livestream on TikTok waiting for the surprise songs on the final Eras Tour show of 2023. I was wildly texting back and forth with my friend Jessica about it, both of us justifying why it was going to happen tonight.

I’d have felt foolish if there hadn’t been over 100,000 people watching the same livestream and doing the same thing in the comments.

Alas, no such announcement. We did get The Eras Tour streaming date the following day so I guess that’s something. I look forward to watching it an unhealthy number of times in the privacy of my own living room while, very likely, crying as this is the closest I will come to actually getting to see the concert.

Now, I’m not trying to rush anything. I’m still processing 1989 (Taylor’s Version) which is home to the best vault tracks she has released thus far.

But here’s my problem. I’m not in my 1989 Era at the moment. Yes, this was the album that converted me and got me my mild internet fame, but it’s not where I’m at as a person right now. If anything, 1989 TV has done a great job at putting me in my feels and making me think way too much about my ex. (That’s a whole other late-night / early-morning blog post). 

Reality is, I’m in my Reputation Era. I want to be wearing all black, not talking to anyone, and singing really angry, loud songs. (I’ve been getting my fix with Kelly Clarkson’s “Chemistry” when it comes to singing loud and wanting to cry all at the same time). 

I’m not as good as others when it comes to unraveling the puzzle that is Taylor Swift. I do pick up the random easter eggs here and there but I’ve only been right once and that was the date she announced 1989 TV. I couldn’t follow the logic for the potential 11/26 Reputation TV announcement but I was happy to jump on board.

Frankly, I think the smartest/funniest thing that she could do is just drop the album. No announcement, no warning, no logic to it at all. Just drop it. All of a sudden it shows up on streaming, her online store is loaded with Rep merchandise, etc. The NEXT day the physical copies are available in stores. But no one said a damn thing. Her army of followers will know in about half a second and it’ll spread worldwide in less than a minute but it would be funny as hell.

That’s just my random two cents.

My newest theory is that it’s coming on New Year’s Day because, you know, the song. There’s also a good chance we won’t see the final two re-releases until 2025. Taylor loves a good pattern. She did two re-releases followed by a new album. Now we have two more re-releases. So in 2024, new album?

Theory two doesn’t track now that I think about it because why start an album cycle in the middle of a tour when it would be difficult to add it into an already packed show. So two re-releases in 2024 makes sense and then a new album post-tour. Though I have to imagine she’ll take some time off after this tour. I’m exhausted for her.

At any rate, my alarm is about to go off which means I’m going to get ready for work where I’ll likely be cranky from lack of sleep.

I’m curious if anyone reading has Reputation TV theories. Let me hear em!

The End; or, The Impossible Art of Letting Go

Finishing a novel is the weirdest thing in the world. At least for me. At least now it is.

I shall explain (in my own way which will likely only make sense to me but you’ve already started reading so you might as well commit and finish the whole thing… NO ONE LIKES A QUITTER!).

There is something bittersweet about typing “The End” on your work in progress. For some reason I didn’t really feel it when I finished “During,” my horror novel. Maybe it was because of how long I had spent working on it and how many breaks I took during the process.

Something about “A Song For Echo” has me feeling some kind of way and I’m finding it hard to write something new. I have several novels planned out and even some in progress but every time I sit down to work on them, I can only think of Echo and Owen.

If you hadn’t read “The Sneaky Return of the Not-So Prolific Blogger,” allow me to catch you up.

Echo and Owen are the main characters of my latest novel, a trip into the world of young adult literature. “A Song For Echo” is a modern, queer, retelling of the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. 

The Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice tells the tragic love story of Orpheus, a gifted musician and son of Apollo, and Eurydice, a nymph. Their joyous wedding is cut short when Eurydice is bitten by a snake and dies. Overwhelmed by grief, Orpheus ventures into the Underworld to retrieve her. With his enchanting music, he persuades Hades to allow Eurydice to return to the living, with the condition that he must not look back until they reach the surface. In a moment of doubt, Orpheus glances back, breaking the pact and losing Eurydice forever.

My retelling does remove the journey to the underworld but traces of it still exist as Owen (the Orpheus of our story) copes with the loss of Echo (Eurydice).

The journey of writing “A Song For Echo” was nothing short of magical. It was one of those experiences where the words flowed effortlessly, and the characters practically leaped off the page. Where “During” took me two years to write, “A Song For Echo” was done in about three months. As a writer, you know these moments are rare and beautiful. But they also come with a double-edged sword – they make it incredibly hard to let go.

I really thought that when I typed the final words, I’d be able to move on to other projects and take the literary world by storm. But here I am, over a month later, and I haven’t been able to write a damn thing. Which I guess is a blessing for my followers here because, when I can’t write, I write.

I’d like to pretend that my writer’s block, as it were, was coming from the anxiety of waiting to hear back from agents and publishers about the book but that excuse is running thin. I queried 2 agents and 2 publishers and as of sitting down to write this post, I’ve heard back from one of each.

The agent was a very confusing “pass.” I say confusing because their feedback was conflicting because they managed to contradict themselves one sentence after another. I will admit that I completely spiraled after receiving it but after re-reading it a few times I realized that they really had no idea what they were talking about. Not in an egotistical “how dare they turn me down” kind of way but in a “have you read a book before” kind of way.

The rejection from the publisher did hurt as well but not as hard. I hard picked a relatively new publisher that is currently working primarily in young adult horror. “A Song For Echo” clearly isn’t horror but I decided to take a chance because the publisher did mention on their website that they would be branching out. A part of me thought I would be the book they’d branch out with, but it wasn’t the right time. I did get a very nice “rejection” email though and, while it sucks, I’m not as upset.

I guess I just need time. I didn’t exactly dive right back into writing after finishing “During” but I’ve never struggled this hard to go back into it.

I’ve also been driving myself insane knowing I haven’t been the best blogger as of late so the double edge sword exists.

I guess we all get to suffer together.

We Never Lived in a Mansion (But We Sure Thought We Did)

I had a weird ass dream last night that took me back to a house that we lived in when we were kids. It’s the house we moved to after my parents officially divorced. My dad went off to live with his girlfriend and my mom moved us in with her boyfriend. It was a house they were renting from a doctor friend of theirs. 

Everyone once and a while this specific house will pop up in my dreams. Long winding hallways, secret rooms, haunted rooms- you know, normal shit.

Last night I dreamt specifically of the second floor where my brother, sister and I all had rooms. In my dream I was apparently living in the house alone but still in my old bedroom. My sister had the bigger bedroom of the three when we were kids and my dream self decided he wanted to move to that bedroom. (My awake self can’t fathom why I wouldn’t move to the master bedroom which was on the first floor but what are you gonna do?)

As I walked the halls, I looked out to the backyard where the pool beckoned to me to come for a swim.

But then my dream self decided it was too cold out to swim. We’ve been getting cold at night here in Florida so that was probably why my brain came to that conclusion. But then my dream self was cursing the New England weather which makes less sense because the real house was in California and I currently live in Florida.

While I was walking back and forth between rooms, I bumped into a wall that opened up and revealed a bathroom, but it wasn’t a bathroom. It was too skinny and sloped down like there were stairs. But upon closer inspection, they weren’t stairs, it was a slide. A slide into the pool! How had we missed this?!

The dream got weirder from there but I won’t go into detail. Nothing insidious, just weird.

When I woke up, I thought about the house for the first time in a while. We called in the Mansion. That’s how my older sister and I identify which house we’re talking about. There’s the Yellow House, the Blue House, the Mansion, and the Brown House. This is how we refer to all the houses we lived in while in California. 

Funny thing is, that house didn’t have a pool. It didn’t have long winding hallways. It wasn’t a mansion (though it did have an absurdly large garage- I remember my mom and her boyfriend throwing a big halloween party in there at one point). 

Oh!

I did also have a secret room.

I don’t really remember how we discovered it but a shelf in my brother’s room could be moved and it opened up into a giant attic space above the garage. 

Thinking back on it now, it was a weird design flaw. I can’t really imagine what that space could have been for other than an absurd amount of storage. I suppose it could have been built out to be more rooms or an office or a playroom? But then you’d have to go through a bedroom to get to it.

The house also had a built-in vacuum cleaner which has no relevance to this story whatsoever but it just popped into my head.

I low-key wonder what it would be like to go back and see that house now. If I could remember the address, I would 100% stalk it on Zillow. It likely is nothing more than a randomly nice two story house that was so shiny and new that, to our young minds, it was a mansion. It did have a ton of land and horse stables. The neighbors down the street had a large pasture with a bunch of sheep that we’d go and terrorize. 

This was also the house where my brother once caught a tarantula. He put it in an old cage where my pet rat had used to live. He subsequently ripped the thing’s legs off (the tarantula, not the rat. The rat was given away at some point).

This memory rabbit hole is either a great idea or a horrible one. 

I may or may not be stalking old houses whose addresses I do remember right now. You know, because reliving trauma is always fun. Whoever owned my dad’s house in California after he sold it, really let it go to shit. Looks like they changed a ton of the inside too and not for the better. Though a random hutch thing he made can still be seen in one of the photos in the backyard.

I also have zero idea why I felt the need to write this down but here we are.

Also, the concept of a mansion is terrible. I mean, if you have the money to take care of it, good for you. My house is just shy of 1100 square feet and I am failing miserably at keeping it in any sort of order. Granted, I still haven’t fully moved in yet. 

I mean, I live here. My stuff is here. But I’ve yet to get fully settled. There are still boxes everywhere. 

Now I’m trying to find a damn dining room table. 

Aren’t you glad I’m back to blogging?

Breaking News: The Halloween Horror Nights Heartbreak

Oh, gather ’round, my faithful readers, for I have some shocking news to share. Brace yourselves, for it’s a revelation that even I’m having trouble digesting—this year, I will not be attending Halloween Horror Nights. Yes, you heard that right! It’s an event that’s been synonymous with my personal brand for years, and I’m feeling a mix of emotions that could rival the spookiest of haunted houses.

I can hear the gasps and see the raised eyebrows from here. “But Josh,” you might say, “How can you possibly skip Halloween Horror Nights when it’s practically your middle name?” And trust me, I get it. HHN has been a defining feature of my existence, like pumpkin spice lattes in fall or candy canes at Christmas. It’s the very essence of what makes me, well, me.

So, why the sudden change of heart? You see, dear readers, it’s a cocktail of reasons, and each one carries its own weight in the decision-making process.

First and foremost, the fandom surrounding Halloween Horror Nights has taken a darker turn in recent years, and not in a good, horror-themed way. The toxicity that now permeates the HHN community is about as welcome as a zombie apocalypse. It’s become less about celebrating our mutual love for the macabre and more about bickering, negativity, and well, just plain nastiness. Frankly, I’d rather face a horde of zombies than that kind of drama.

Then there’s the crowd situation. It seems that as the years go by, Halloween Horror Nights attracts more thrill-seekers and aficionados than ever before. The thought of navigating the maddening crowds has begun to feel more like a horror show itself. It’s no longer the intimate, spooky experience I once cherished.

Let’s not forget about the price tag. Halloween Horror Nights has become a pricey endeavor, and this year, with the monumental task of buying a house, I’ve had to reevaluate my spending priorities. Sure, being chased by chainsaw-wielding maniacs is a hoot, but there’s something equally satisfying about being able to unpack all the stuff I’ve accumulated over the years. Furniture and dishes might not scream “spooky fun,” but they are essential for a comfortable living space.

Now, here’s the real plot twist: I’ve also come to realize that my time is a valuable commodity. Right now, I’m deep in the throes of multiple writing projects, working on new books, and crafting new worlds. It’s a passion that feeds my soul, and I want to give it the attention it deserves. I’m not saying I don’t adore Halloween Horror Nights; it’s just that this year, it wasn’t fueling my joy the way it used to.

I’m not about to turn into one of those bloggers who preach that every minute of your life should be spent exclusively on activities that make money and raise your profile. But I do believe I’m on the brink of something great in my writing career, and I want to make sure I’m giving it my all.

So, my dear readers, rest assured that I won’t abandon my love for all things spooky and supernatural. I’ll still be keeping a close eye on Halloween Horror Nights through the magical lens of social media. I’ll be eagerly awaiting the return of those pizza fries and all the other spooky nonsense in 2024.

Until then, here’s to embracing change and following our passions, even if it means trading haunted houses for the thrill of chasing our dreams.

The Sneaky Return of the Not-So-Prolific Blogger

Oh, hello there! Remember me? The blogger who mysteriously vanished into thin air, leaving you all in a state of suspense, desperately wondering what on earth had happened? Well, fear not, my dear readers, for I have returned from the depths of… well, wherever I was hiding, to grace you with my ever-erratic presence once again.

Now, I know it’s been a while, and I’m sure you’ve all been crying yourselves to sleep every night over my absence (I mean, who wouldn’t?). But let me assure you that I haven’t been completely idle during my hiatus. You see, while the blog was as quiet as a library during a naptime, my life was anything but dull.

You might recall that back in April, I excitedly announced the completion of my first novel, “During.” I had this grand plan that with the novel behind me, I’d have all the time in the world to shower you with witty and entertaining blog posts. Oh, how wrong I was! Life, as it often does, threw a curveball my way. I found myself navigating the treacherous waters of home buying and moving. As a result, I still haven’t fully unpacked my life, and I’m beginning to believe that I now reside in a parallel universe where cardboard boxes serve as avant-garde home decor.

Meanwhile, on the writing front, I went from having one novel to working on not one, not two, but a grand total of four novels simultaneously. My ambitious plan to balance novel-writing, blog-posting, and unpacking went out the window faster than a hot potato.

One of those novels took me on a wild and thrilling ride that I just couldn’t resist. It’s a young adult novel that had been swirling around in my head for ages, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. You know how it is—characters take on a life of their own, and suddenly, nothing else in the world matters except their story.

So, on the 2nd of October, I triumphantly declared, “It is finished!” My latest creation, “A Song For Echo,” is a modern, queer reimagining of the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. It was an absolute blast to write—tragic and sad, yes, but also incredibly fun. I can’t help but feel a little guilty about how much I enjoyed putting my characters through the emotional wringer.

And now? I’ve officially polished up the manuscript and sent it off into the vast, mysterious world of literary agents and publishers. I’ve got a good feeling about this one, a gut feeling that says, “This is it!” I can’t wait for you all to meet Owen and Echo and embark on their beautifully (and tragically) entwined journey.

So, my faithful followers (though I don’t know why you stick around), I promise not to keep you waiting in suspense for months on end like some kind of blogging Houdini. I’ll do my best to keep you updated on my writing escapades, unpacking misadventures, and who knows what else.

I’ve been told that watching/listening to me through the process of writing “A Song For Echo” was really enjoyable for the people who saw me day to day, so I’m considering doing that more in blog form.

Will it happen? I guess you’ll have to stick around to find out!

I Moved and Now the White Claw Bandit is Out of a Job

I know it’s been a while since I’ve updated and I only have myself to blame. Ever since the move, I’ve had a hard time adjusting to a new schedule for life. The move-in process has been slow-going and every time I start to get some work done around the house, I get overwhelmed and have to stop.

I did summon enough energy today to do my Sunday chores and while I was washing dishes, I realized that today was the 9th. It’s not an important date, but it means that June ended a little over a week ago.

It dawned on me that when I moved back in April, I unwittingly triggered the end of an era. Specifically, the end of the mysterious White Claw deliveries. 

Yes, for the past three years, I have been the lucky recipient of monthly deliveries of the beloved hard seltzer known as White Claw. And no, I don’t know who was behind it. They came and went like a ghost in the night, leaving me and the entire internet* baffled, confused, concerned, and a little amused.

*By the entire internet, I of course, mean my Facebook friends, anyone who was reading my blog in 2020, and my co-workers both current and former.

If you are new here and have no idea what I’m talking about, I encourage you to read: “Do You Want Basic White Girls? Because This is How You Get Basic White Girls” and “The Return of the Basic White Girls (And They’re Pissed)(But Not Really)” which explain the beginning of the phenomenon.

For the three years I lived in my old apartment, I received a case of White Claw on a monthly basis with absolutely no explanation. I got bored with writing about it after my second blog post and stopped updating my friends on Facebook after a few months. But my lack of updates did not deter my mysterious benefactor. They just kept coming.

But now, dear readers, I have moved from my home. And with that move, the era of the White Claw Bandit has come to an end. Who was this mysterious benefactor? Was it a secret admirer? A mischievous neighbor? A White Claw executive trying to boost sales? We will never know.

But let’s take a moment to reflect on the absurdity of it all. Who just randomly sends someone a case of White Claw every month for three years? It’s like a modern-day version of the Phantom of the Opera, but instead of haunting a theater, they haunt your fridge.

I have to admit, it’s been a little sad not discovering a fresh case of White Claw on my doorstep every month. It was like a twisted Christmas came early 12 times a year. But at the same time, I’m relieved to finally move on from this bizarre chapter of my life.

So to whoever was behind the White Claw deliveries, I say thank you for the laughs, the confusion, and the alcohol. And to everyone else, keep your eyes peeled for your own White Claw Bandit. Who knows, maybe they’re out there waiting to bring a little joy (and confusion) into your life.

When Birds Attack? A Tale of Fins, Feathers, and Windshields

We can pretty much file this blog entry under “Sh*t That Would Only Happen to Me.” Which I don’t actually have a category for… maybe it’s time.

The past few weeks have been dedicated to moving (yep, I moved again. For hopefully the last time) and as I’ve mentioned so many times before, I hate moving. I hate it so much. I’m also discovering that I hate unpacking just as much. Even as I’m sitting here writing this, I’m surrounded by half empty boxes. I’m avoiding looking to my left because there are even more boxes. Basically, it looks like a bomb went off in here because I needed to find something and I couldn’t remember what box it was in.

The actual day of the move was an insane blur. I woke up early and took a carload of stuff to the new house and then came the moving of the cats. I wanted to get them to the new place before the movers came because my old apartment didn’t have any good places to lock them away. So I piled them all into the car and away we went.

It went about as good as you’d expect. Burger, always the badass, was pumped to get into the carrier and go on an adventure. Guinness, who hasn’t been out of the apartment since the day we moved it, was a bit skeptical about everything but was game. Lemon, who hates everything that isn’t the comfort and safety of home, sang the song of her people the entire 45 minute car ride.

Then the movers showed up two hours early and I had to leave the cats in this strange new place which I felt terrible about but it had to be done. 

I would like the record to show that it has now been three weeks and you would have thought they lived here their whole lives. 

You’ll also note that it’s been three weeks and I’m still unpacking. It is hell. I don’t know where anything goes.

Also, last time I moved was during lockdown so I had nothing but time on my hands and I was unpacked in a week.

Stupid job.

So I’m rushing back to my apartment to meet the movers who are now sitting there waiting for me. My commute takes me across Lake Jessup which is the most alligator infested lake in Florida with a gator population of around 13,000. That is a lot of alligators just waiting for me to swerve off the bridge and eat me alive.

Now, I hate driving across bridges at the best of times (fun fact: my commute to work takes me over this bridge every damn day now), but here we are.

So there I was, driving 70 MPH across this bridge, minding my own business when BAM!

A goddamn fish smashes into my windshield, scaring the living shit out of me.

I’m going to give you a moment to reread that last line because I’m still processing what the hell happened.

I hit a fish. A fish hit me? My car and a fish hit one another?

It was startling, to say the least, to have a fish come flying out of the sky and smack into your windshield. I can only assume that a bird had scored itself a meal only to lose it on my car. I’m sure someone made a meal out of that fish eventually. Who knows.

Needless to say, my day was made far more interesting at that moment and I have a new story to tell at parties. You know, for all those parties I go to…