Books

Life, for me, has been its own version of death by a thousand cuts. Some were obvious. Some were so small I didn’t realize how much I was bleeding until years later. But I refused to let life bleed me out. I patched myself up—sometimes badly, sometimes with the emotional equivalent of duct tape and a prayer—and I got smarter about where I was bleeding, who was holding the knife, and, more painfully, the times I had handed it to them myself.

The scars stayed. Good. They’re a map now. Not some inspirational everything-happens-for-a-reason bullshit—a record of where I’ve been, what nearly took me out, what I learned there, and the fact that I fucking came back.

I’m not a relationship coach. I’m a writer who came back from the wreckage with wicked scars, twisted stories, sharp observation, and enough notes to reconstruct the crash. My work can be raw, cinematic, raunchy, absurd, profane, emotional, and ridiculous—sometimes in the same paragraph—because real life has never had the decency to stay inside one genre.

They didn’t break me. They clarified me.