Two weeks into the new year and I'm questioning what-the-hell it is I'm doing.
Or not doing.
I've done a lot of traveling, drinking, dancing, smoking, loving, laughing, and some crying.
(Hey, I'm a girl, I'm allowed.)
What I haven't done is a lot of writing.
This is where it gets dangerous, where I wake up and all of a sudden I'm seventy and saggy and frustrated and alone and asking myself how I fucked up life so bad.
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