I wrote a book. This makes me a writer. Whether I'm a good writer or not depends on how I'm feeling that day. Whether you think I'm a good writer or not makes no difference to me—of course, I'm lying; I desperately want you to like me. The book I wrote is titled Will You Marry Me, Brittany Rose? and it’s beautiful. If you’ve read it, you agree with me; if you haven’t, take my word for it and read it right now because Brittany Rose is masterful.
As for the rest of me… I don’t know? I like dogs. I'm allergic to cats and grass and have a friend that’s allergic to peanuts. Therefore, I eat a lot of peanuts, especially in front of that particular friend. I went on a hike once. I thought Disney World was overrated until I became an adult; now I agree that it’s the best. I often wonder if Shakespeare wore underwear and if he washed them regularly and if this is what he meant by the taming of the shrew. What else? Again, I don’t know? Oh yeah—the greatest tragedy of my life is never having owned a model train. Not a single one! I've had twenty-nine birthdays and no one has ever gifted me a model train. Not a single damn one!
Moving on, my next book will be another book about love. Because, as Wesley Alter says in Brittany Rose (seriously, read the thing already), “[We] talk about love because, when considering, what else is there to talk about?” After that, I will write whatever I damn well please—or at least I hope. Maybe a postmodern detective western. Perhaps a novel about a conspiracy or a travelogue traversing the United States—a cross-country trip in hopes to near normal. Although, most likely, it’ll be a book about love. And it'll be a book about model trains. In which, I’ll highlight all the trains I’d love my loved ones to gift me for my thirtieth birthday.
I was supposed to keep this to 50 or fewer words, so—finally—I’ll leave it at that.