Why I Write...or at least try to

I have been told by more than a few (dozen) people that I am highly inappropriate. I think ‘vulgar’ was the exact word. I have the sense of humor of a Will Ferrell comedy, and have had more Hangover nights than I am proud of. Most people think I’m embarrassing. I think I’m a pretty cool chick.

With that said, I can admit that outside of my immediate circle of friends who totally ‘get’ me, I am not civilized enough for a regular 9-5 office job. Not even a Starbucks barista. I’d make some kind of crude joke about coffee beans or cream, or a combination of both. It’s a sickness, I tell ya.

So I write. I mean, sure, I can do something else with my life, but why should I? I love it; it is truly what I was built for. And when I sit at my laptop- headphones blasting, wineglass full, tapping away like a madwoman- I truly feel like me. I can be as crude and crass as I want to be. I can create a world where those qualities are not only redeeming but praised. And suddenly, I don’t feel so inappropriate. I feel like I belong.

So there it is. No deep, mystical calling ordained by the universe. I was just made to write. God wouldn’t have put this much awesome into one body if I wasn’t, right?