A couple of months ago I let on that I’d been writing a bunch of essays in my not-so-spare time, and it was something I was shy to admit to even you, Sweet Internet. For someone who has told the internet so much about the state of her vagina, I tend to be a fairly private person. Especially when I’m branching out of my comfort zone of bon-bons, martini’s, and cheese queso, which this would absolutely qualify as.

I was so quiet about the whole situation that I only shamefully told my best friends about it when I was nearing the end of it all. I suppose I was just being shy. Well, that and it seems that everyone and their brother has an aspiration to Write a Book or Be An Actor That Sleeps With Vincent D’Onofrio, and the last thing that I want to be is like someone else.

Plus my 5 Year Plan involves only one phrase: Don’t Die.

I’m not that much of a planner, I suppose, although up until very recently, my Diet Coke stash was never depleted. Now it just tastes like battery acid, you bastard, and I don’t obviously want to drink it.

But I have a new non-Diet Coke related quest, Internet, one that I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about sooner. Shh, baby, it’s okay, Aunt Becky still loves you best.

I’ve written a book, and I need help. My literary agents have thoughtfully suggested that I come to you for some suggestions on some of my more sluggish essays, and I think that’s a brilliant idea. Would you be willing to help me, Sweet Internet, in my quest?

Yes, you read that right: I have literary agents. And a book. It’s a good book, I think, and I think you’ll like it.



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