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I need to go on a solo, wifi-free writing retreat. Maybe to a quiet, obscure log cabin nestled in a woodsy, majestic mountainside or, better yet, a cute lil’ bamboo hut on a breezy, tropical beach. I’ll escape the sweltering sun by lounging under a giant umbrella where I’ll happily type away on my laptop all day. When writer’s block sets in, I’ll sip on a strong, fruity cocktail and let the warm, foamy ocean waves lap at my tanned toes.

I doubt that I’ll have writer’s block, though. I’m sitting on a wealth of recent experiences that are begging to be documented. Like the guy I dated who lied about being single. Oh, and the OTHER guy I dated who lied about being single. And the time I went on a date with a man who had a nose-sucking fetish. I also want to write about the time a rude, vegan lesbian interrupted my brunch to loudly protest my bacon consumption. And I need to write about how, despite efficiently planning extravagantly complex weddings, I totally suck at planning sex parties. I also have plenty of hilarious stories about shitty roommates and I probably should write about the night I waited until my cheating boyfriend was asleep to use his fingerprint to hack into his phone (Not as easy as you think!) Hell, I still haven’t written about the night Madonna snapped at me and then I stole a champagne flute adorned with her lip stick print.

I have to do some serious writing, too. I have so much to say about the tumultuous state of the country and how that asshat #45 is #NotMyPresident. I need to express my anger over the rampant racism and bigotry that continues to blaze across the country. And I think it’s important to share with people how I’ve been trying to overcome a consuming, stifling depression. And finally, I still have plenty of poignant, nostalgic stories about my Midwestern upbringing, my late little brother (may he rest in peace,) and how I’m now realizing that my adorable country-bumpkin parents were right about everything they ever told me.

But, unfortunately, I can’t afford a tropical getaway or the rent for that cool mountainside log cabin where Whitney’s sister got shot in The Bodyguard. Instead, I’ll light a few candles, pour another glass of white wine, hit play on that 90’s playlist (Jade, Groove Theory, Brownstone, and Total) and sit at my kitchen table in my gray sweats and pound out a few hundred words on my laptop.