I write. Even though it’s the only thing I can ever remember wanting to be (aside from fashion designer in first grade and athletic trainer for a brief stint straddling the divide between middle and high school, mainly because I thought it would help me get into professional hockey players’ pants) and the only thing I’ve ever been reasonably good at, I hate referring to myself as “a writer” because it always comes out sounding so vague and intellectually elitist and egotistical. Imagine me saying “I’m a writer” in the voice the boys use in that now-classic Beyonce/JT “Single Ladies” SNL sketch (“We’re the dancers.”) and you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

So I write, I work in Detroit and I’m navigating the throes of a quarterlife crisis. I can also talk like nobody’s business—whenever, wherever and about whatever—and probably come out sounding like a complete jackass know-it-all most of the time. Not my intention, but what you may more often than not get when swinging by this sweet little virtual bachelorette pad I’ve got going on here. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.