I’m always interested in the origin stories of the writers and authors whose work I adore.

Some of them, more than one, have stories of living in their cars before “making it.” Some have a Masters in Fine Arts, but were good writers even before they sold their first born to the bursar.

Some were and are regular ole people who love to lament about the act of writing all day until they sit down at their computer at night out of self loathing and a deep need to produce something, and then draft some of the most hilarious and relevant shit I’ve read in my life.

I started to think of my own origin story, and how it is weirder and less romantic but still interesting. I scribbled it down to make sense of it, as I always do.

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