To Fitbit.
Thanks for reminding us every hour, on the hour, just how much we weren’t walking while we were writing this book. That was a real Leslie thing to do. Asshole.
And to jokers, troublemakers, pranksters; to adults who still feel like kids.
Every once in a while, we see a review complaining that “this isn’t how people in their early 30s think and talk”—and it always makes us laugh.
They’re right, mostly. People in their thirties can be really mature, responsible individuals.
But they can also be people like us—like our characters. And researching our kind of people is a lot more fun.
My name is Lola Sexton, and I’m a sex addict.
Okay…that’s a lie. Truth is, I’m a dating and relationship columnist for the San Francisco Times. Think of my column as a game of Simon Says—an adult game for all of the curious little sex cubs out there.
My readers call me Sex, and in a world of people searching for themselves and their perfect someone, Sex always Says.
Sex Says: do as I say and not as I do when it comes to dating advice.
Sex Says: don’t be afraid to try new positions and learn what you love—though make sure to stretch before the Chinese Dragon.
Sex Says: if you let guys walk all over you, you could end up smelling like feet.
Don’t fall in love with guys like Reed Luca.
Wait… I meant to say, Sex Says: don’t fall in love with guys like Reed Luca.
He might look like God’s gift to women, but he’s not. He’s a total prick.
Oh, God… Did I just jinx myself?
The blank, white screen of my Word doc stared back at me. Write Write Write the black cursor taunted with each synchronized flash. Write Some-Thing Write Any-Thing…
“This isn’t good, Louie,” I said above the background noise of my go-to Spotify playlist—the exact soundtrack of songs that usually aided my writing cause, but tonight, seemed lackluster in its earworm ability.
Blup. Blup. Blup. Blup. Blup. Five little, mismatched bubbles floated from my goldfish’s lips as if to say, You, dear Lola, are a procrastinating asshole.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, dude.”
Blup.
Translation: Whatever.
Louie’s far-too-plump fish body wiggled a bit, and then he swam off to do whatever fishes do—probably yoga—behind his favorite hiding spot: the neon sand castle inside his spacious aquarium. Sad as it may sound for a thirty-two-year-old woman, he was the only man in my life. And usually, he was also my favorite man. But tonight, his sarcastic bubble responses weren’t exactly reassuring for a girl on a deadline.
That girl—well, procrastinating asshole—was me: Lola Sexton, Creative Director, President, and CEO of Sex Says, the very best column in the San Francisco Times.
AKA, The Writer. Maybe you should use some of this overextensive foray into hyperbole for the actual column. Huh, Lola?
This week’s column wasn’t coming easily. The words weren’t flowing off my fingertips in their usual faucet-like fashion, and shit was stagnant inside my normally free and creative—and probably a bit on the eccentric side—mind.
Hell, I felt stagnant. Torpid. Wordless. Ideas were scattered like fucking fireflies behind my eyes, and yet, I couldn’t grab ahold of a single fucking one. If this was a sinking ship, I was hurtling toward the bottom of the sea without a boat or a life jacket, or even a neon sand castle to hide out in.
Why, oh, why, did I wait until the very last minute to write this one?
I mean, it was already four in the morning, and this bad boy was due to my editor in less than five hours. At precisely 9:00 a.m., Pacific Time, Joe—my editor and, sometimes, bane of my existence—would expect this week’s column to be sitting prettily inside his inbox.
Jesus, Lola. Get it together. Focus. Just put your fingertips to the keys and type. It really is that easy. Just. Type.
If I had been keeping a tally, I’d say that was Mental Pep Talk #101 of the night. My brain might as well have been a rusty faucet, and my creative juices were the brown water drip-dropping out of it at a slow and sluggish pace.
Sad. Fucking. Shape.
Not to mention, my focus was almost nonexistent. Every five minutes, I’d drift away from my Word doc to Google search random things like kittens or kittens wearing shoes or kittens wearing hats or kittens sleeping…
Was it obvious I really wanted a kitten?
If it weren’t for the Pets Forbidden rule of my apartment, I probably would’ve adopted a tiny, cute, and cuddly kitten instead of a sarcastic goldfish who never agreed with anything I said.
Louie should be thankful I’ve broken the rules for him. I mean, I could easily get evicted if my landlord caught on to his scaly presence in my apartment.