My husband wrote the title of this blog post for me. Anyway, the first part is true: I have a book. It's a beautiful little thing, and you can hold it with your real American hands! Or your hands of other nationalities, if you're willing to pay for international shipping.
My twenty-sixth birthday has come and gone, and I am no longer halfway between twenty and thirty. I am getting further and further away from twenty-one, and have fewer opportunities to blame my indiscretions on being young, in college, everything that goes with being in college, etc.
Now I just have to blame them on the truth: I'm an idiot most of the time.
The book is no indiscretion, though. I did this on purpose. And I don't think it sucks. If you have five bucks, you can read it for yourself and decide.
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