I will make beautiful music.

When I was little, I wanted to learn how to play the piano.

I saw tons of my friend playing talk about going to their piano lessons. And I wanted to go to piano lessons, too.

So I begged my parents. And they said, "No." Because they felt that I would get bored. And it would be a waste of money.

We had an out-of-tune piano in our house. And I would spend hours banging on the keys. Making little tunes. Writing songs that I can sort of still remember. Sounding out things like "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

But even after bleeding as much dedication as a seven year old could, my parents still wouldn't give me piano lessons. And being the eighties, I couldn't simply google "how to play the piano" like I can today.

So when we started playing the recorder, those simple little plastic instruments in the third grade, I practiced and practiced until I was the best recorder player in class. I played in my room after school. Before dinner. After dinner. I could play any song in that book the teacher gave us.

Still. My parents felt I'd get bored with the piano. I think they were just cheap. Or they thought dance lessons were more feminine (after all, I wasn't allowed to take karate, either).

So after years of being discouraged from learning the piano, at 27 years old, I googled "how to play the piano."

I also bought myself a keyboard. And I've been learning how to read music. I already know all of the keys. And  I'm starting to be able to play the easy songs (although playing with two hands at once is still beyond me, but it'll happen).

I'm going to do this. I can do this.

I taught myself how to ride a bike when I was in third grade (late bloomer, I know; but I had no one to teach me).

I taught myself how to do back handsprings. And then a series of back handsprings. And then with a flip in the end. And to salto off of a balance beam.

I taught myself how to swim. And dive. Sort of.

And I'm going to teach myself how to play beautiful music. It's not going to be easy. But neither was waiting twenty years to learn.

I am officially a professional.

The dictionary definition of a professional is someone who gets paid to do something.

It's a lose definition, but you get the gist.

Well, the dictionary is wrong. In order to be a professional, one must master the art of walking away while still engaged in conversation.

Not ending the conversation and then departing. Actually finishing up a sentence while increasing distance. It's multitasking at it's finest. And only the best professionals do it well.

EXAMPLE 1
Person 1: This is great.
Person 2: I appreciate that.
Person 1: Thanks for getting it to me so quickly.
Person 2 (while walking away): Let me know if you need anything else.

EXAMPLE 2
Both people are approaching one another in the hallway.
Person 1: Hey, how was your weekend.
Person 2: It was fantastic. Did you go to Six Flags with your family?
Now they are side by side, but only for a moment because they're both still walking.
Person 1: Sure did. I won a basketball.
Person 2: Did you play in college?
They are now walking away from one another and not facing.
Person 1: Sure did.

Over the course of the last few weeks, I've been slowly observing this phenomenon. And I'm finally getting the hang of it.

Hooray. My parents would be so proud.

I usually don't drink while I write.

There's one week out of every month that I refer to as Hell Week.

And no, we're not talking about that week.

I have a monthly writing assignment (that I absolutely love) that's a ton of work for a relatively short amount of time.

So for that week, I'm usually writing late into the night and burning my brain with the glow of a very large computer screen.

Some of the things I have to write come easily. Some of them require more time-eating research than I'd prefer to do. And some just bust my non-existant balls.

Like this one thing I have to write tonight. I don't even know where to start. It's a ridiculous little thing that's so far outside of my comfort zone that I had to go to the liquor cabinet.

I never drink while I write. Er, I never start writing and need a drink. After all, I can't help it if my glass of wine from dinner follows me into the home office. Plus that glass usually take three hours to drink.

I digress. I don't purposefully drink to alter myself to alter my writing.

Drinking makes me fuzzy, not funny, slow, and a poor judge of taste.

But without my little glass of flavored vodka, there's no way in Hell I'd get through this one piece of an otherwise overflowing Hell Week.

Cheers, friends.

I really hate censorship.

Have you heard of the phenomenon "Shit my dad says."

It's hilarious. It's basically insane ramblings from someone's hilarious father (in a nutshell, anyway).

And one of the big networks is adapting the concept into a TV show. And they've decided to call it "[Funny Symbols That Imply a Censored Word] My Dad Says."

That's right. They're using symbols. They're not saying "shit."

And people are getting their fucking panties in a tight little wad and then shoving that tight little wad up their puckered asses like little bitches.

Because symbols mean there's a dirty word. GASP! You know what else means a dirty word? Darn. Or fiddle sticks. Or oh my stars. Or golly geez.

Using *&%# in type when you're expressing shock is no different than keying, "Shoot!"

I just can't believe people are getting offended by an asterisk. If they're so worried about their kids learning a dirty word (that isn't even there), tell the kids that the symbols mean kablooey, blast, rats, or drat.

I'm glad William Shatner (whom I will now refer to as the Shat) is on board with this show. The guy's got a temper and he's bound to say some brilliant stuff about these censor-happy fucktards.

Let the Shat hit the fan.

I am a city mouse.

I love the city. I love the concrete, the tall buildings (despite crippling acrophobia), and the one-way streets.

I love the sounds of traffic, construction, and high heels on hard surfaces.

I love working downtown. And I'm so stoked to be spending most of my working hours here again.

Downtown just gives me energy. It gives me the feeling of flying (perhaps because I'm on the 25th floor). And ideas are just easier to find this close to the clouds.

As long as I stay far enough away from those floor-to-ceiling windows. Those make me dizzy.