This shameful piece of bloggery is the retarded lovechild of my passion for whiskey and the written word. I already feel the need to apologize in advance for the sheer amount of bleach required to cleanse one’s irises of the script to follow.
I’d like to think I’m a writer. I’d like to think that somewhere along the way, between crossword puzzles and Mad Libs, I actually put pen to paper and captured the gossamer thread of a thought. Wove it, however inexpertly, through a block of otherwise mundane text and arrived at some semblance of a story. I’d like to think so but, frankly, I’m not the one who gets to decide. Many write but few write. I can only hope, at the end of it all, that my words — even fleetingly — grasp someone and generate emotion. It would simultaneously be my proudest and most humbling moment.
So to you, dear reader, I offer my thanks and welcome you on this journey. I often picture myself as a patchwork knight off to battle the fearsome Blank Page, pensword in hand. I cannot promise that we will escape this unscathed, but we’ll hopefully come through with a great story or two.