May Romi only write about ladies of the night, and pursue the dream world.
It starts with the beginning of a brand new year. For people who indulged too much over the holidays, this means an end to the guiltless consumption of chickens stuffed in ducks stuffed in turkeys (it’s called turducken and it’s real), and the beginning of joining a gym so you can buy into the Richard Simmons lie, the supposed promise that your legs could ever be as toned and oily as his, or that silky striped short-shorts are available en masse.
For those of us who are pretty much the same weight all the time and pretty okay with that—isn’t it cool how I sound like a zen person who never even wrote about a weight-conscious protagonist in her first book?—we’re thrust into reality in different ways. There’s less sweat and less “trying to like…
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