About the Real Live Woman

I used to have pretty big hair. It was just something you did back then. When they sold my childhood home, my stepmom said they had to scrape 5-years-worth of hairspray off the bathroom wall. I would spend hours  primping in front of the mirror with the radio on. I knew the lyrics to every song on the oldies station, which at the time meant 50s doo-wop, 60s Motown, psychadelic 70s rock. Then I would flip the dial to the Top 40 station where it was 80s pop and New Wave, early 90s R&B and hip hop. It was great. Maybe it was all that time in the bathroom singing and thinking and playing make-believe that made me want to be a writer. Every song was a different story, the description of a different experience. Even though all the songs were essentially about the same themes: love, loss, anger, sadness, sex, pain, god, they each told the story in a different way. I acted the stories out in front of the mirror. My performances were my interpretations, the answer to the question, “How would I tell this story?” I went to college and got an English lit degree, which meant I stopped writing. After college I got an office job which meant I stopped reading. Then I think I realized that I had stopped writing because I hadn’t lived enough life to write about yet. So I went out and lived a bunch of life and shit. It was more than just binge drinking and poor romantic decision making, but not a lot more. There was some travel in there, and some work experiences and shit too. Then I just sat down at the computer and created this blog. So I guess I had finally lived enough life to have stuff to write about. And here we are.

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