As I Drag My Broken Body Into The Cold Darkness

Or what it feels like to get up for work after you’ve been a writer for three years

A house painter-writer sounds like some bullshit out of a romance novel. I’ve always aspired to be a cliché. I’m only two kids or a horse ranch and a dead wife away from a Halmark movie romantic interest.

Yet here I am awake a five AM bitching to my audience about something a large portion of them do every day.