As you all know, this is a serious literary website (to those of you who get it) and I would never do what I am about to do without grave reason. This goes beyond nudity, because I’m never sure I want you to know me. Those of you who have viewed the Insomnia: Doctors and Drug Dealers work-in-progress reading will perhaps comprehend what it means to me to have made it to forty years of age sans suicide.

Me still here. And so; I share these photographs of my 40th birthday party with you for the reasons above.

Question: Why are any of us still here? Send your answers in.
The cake was a beautiful surprise; a replica of a vintage Smith Corona typewriter I have recently bought out of pure indulgent nostalgia for the days when writers went click click clack clackety clack. It had rice paper scattered around it with sections from Blackout written upon said rice paper. Thus rendering me able to eat my own words.
I ate most of the cake myself, during the ensuing nights of sleeplessness and desire. More chocolate has been poured into my veins in the past three weeks than codeine.

The result of this chocolate binge? My hair turned brunette.
My question to you, readers: how can I be The Naked Blonde Writer, if I am now a brunette? Suggestions accepted, but never expected.