I’m not dead. I promise.
But on my 26th birthday a few weeks ago, I took a vow of silence. This has limited my ability to interact with people, therefore I’ve been staying home, with Robert, watching all the episodes of Orange Is The New Black, Six Feet Under, and RHOA.
I will be back soon. Very soon. Very, Very soon.
I’m thinking of becoming an escort.
Dear Kim Kardashian,
I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what you look like, I don’t know what your hair looks like, and I don’t know whether, as a general rule, you think it’s acceptable to eat more than two pieces of salmon sashimi on the first or any date (hint: it isn’t). What I do know is that our lives/careers/love lives usually end up taking unexpected turns, and asking me to predict those turns is literally impossible so thanks for setting me up for failure. I mean, did I ever think I was going to become a published author? Or fuck an unnamed member of the Lakers? Or discover that my mom was a really chic lesbian supermodel? Or become a published author again? Not really.
So even though I’m pretty sure this is a bad (and potentially catastrophic) career move there’s really no way for me to tell you that you shouldn’t do it. Who knows, you might meet a super successful, super handsome Greek heir who sweeps you off your feet, marries you on a beach in Mykonos, and moves you into a devastatingly chic penthouse overlooking the Med. On the other hand, you could also just end up spending your time entertaining a bunch of sweaty, awkward, pale pharmacists who look like Jonah Hill, spit when they talk, fantasize about wearing your skin as a suit, and, even though you continually refuse, keep trying to pay you in Mexican pesos.