Whenever I put on my combat boots and layer a chunky sweater over a sundress, I hear a little voice in my head all day long that says “Fuck yeah, I am providing a valuable service because I have a marketable skill.” You just don’t get that vibe from your underwear (or maybe you do, in which case, kudos).
I thought Good Omens might prove just a little too sacrilegious for my taste. Turns out I was wrong. It is exactly the right amount sacrilegious.
The robot apocalypse is already beginning, I can tell, because when I went to Best Buy to look at laptops, I felt guilty every time I wandered away from the Lenovo section.
I get to hang out in a bar with my friends once a week, and I roll sparkly pink dice to determine if I successfully shoot a demon through its nonexistent heart, which is exactly the kind of femme fatale shit I’m looking for. But as a writer, I’ve noticed that my personality is not always overly compatible with D&D.
I would adjust. That’s what I keep telling my baby that I feel terrible for hoping isn’t there. "I will love being your mom, it just wasn’t the plan right now so I’m freaking out. Mommy does that a lot. But she loves you."