My name is Sarah, and this is my blog.
As a discerning reader, you may be wondering what exactly qualifies me to write this blog or anything at all. Well, how about the fact that I don’t even have an English degree? Yes, that’s right. You heard me correctly. I don’t know a single thing about grammar, usage, or style beyond what little was forced upon me in high school. And if I’m honest, I’ve forgotten most of even that.
Still not convinced? Would it help to know that I’ve never published a thing in my entire life? I haven’t. Not a poem, not a short story, not an article for a magazine or newspaper, not even a letter to the editor. Not one single word. Impressive, isn’t it? And I think the fact that I’ve never made it farther than “Chapter One” in any number of failed manuscripts speaks for itself.
I do make a little bread and butter from the freelance work I do as a proof reader, editor, and copy writer. But that kind of writing doesn’t count, does it? I mean, copy writing isn’t real writing. Sort of like how Velveeta isn’t real cheese. And pennies aren’t real money. And Roseart aren’t real crayons. Those cheap Roseart pieces of shit.
Okay, fine. Maybe it counts a little. But it’s certainly not going to affect the quality of this blog, I promise you that. If what you’re looking for are the incoherent ramblings of an aging “writer” with essentially no experience, est. 1975 is absolutely the best place to be. Trust.
Come. Sift through my many bitter and unoriginal complaints about growing old. Slog through a shit ton of poorly written and only mildly interesting anecdotes about all of the stupid things I still do at the age of almost forty. Join me on the hairy, saggy, yet strangely liberating journey toward not giving a fuck.
Let’s do it, friends. Let’s get ugly and incontinent together.