Tis the season

for people to have lovely life events like engagements and weddings and births, and congratulations to them. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here with my feet up on my desk blogging and biting my nails and thinking about how dangerous it would be to have a beautiful house. It would be like a giant anchor and I might never think about anything else. I would rather be a vagabond with no tea towels. I've been thinking a lot about how life seems to be going on somewhere else, somewhere I'm nose-to-glass to. That's how I've started thinking of myself, like it's an identity. I don't buy the shit about needing to be miserable to be a writer, not at all, but I don't see why anyone would write if they didn't have a big store of regrets.