The scene: A half-way to grown up house party The crowd: Writer-types & the masochistic girls who date them
Dude: So what do you do?
Dude is 5’8”-ish, awkwardly pompous & an oddly sallow shade of pale.
Deep breath. In the interest of pandering to the over-literate-under-original masses, I reply.
Me: I’m a writer
Skepticism. Bemused left eyebrow. Strange twitchy flare in the nostril region.
Dude: Oh, really? What are you working on now?
Me: My memoirs. Also known as my blog. And I freelance for —-
Dude: Ohhhh. So you’re a blogger.
This is why I don’t speak to short men.