For the first time in the history of forever, I’m speechless.
What does it mean? I AM horrible and wild and brilliant and a ridiculous wannabe and a mom and pretty damn sad but I still don’t understand.
My college-aged son’s care package got delivered to my home by accident and my younger son took it, and now I have to keep knocking on his door and begging for candy that I paid for, like some sort of demented version of trick-or-treating.
Me: I’m not sure that I’m a good fit for your client. They don’t seem to like my style of writing.
Them: No, that’s not true! They don’t like anyone’s writing.
Me: Oh, okay. Again, I’m not sure I’m a good fit for your client. They don’t seem to like anyone’s style of writing.