To say I'm a passionate woman is about as poignant as calling the sky blue. Everyone already knows.
I fall in love easily and often with projects, people, and places indiscriminately. And that lack of discrimination has made my life, well, complicated.
My life's tapestry has been woven with chiffon and steel wire, patched with burlap and silk thread. I've left a trail of whiskey-fueled nights, lovers who wanted me to bottle me up and make me into anything but what I am, and prayers to the karaoke gods for an escape that'd last more than three minutes so long that I'm literally writing a book about it.
After my divorce and a fuckery of a rebound relationship, I forced myself to stay single for a year and figure out what the fuck I even wanted anyway. My dating challenge - 52 dates in 52 weeks - had just come to an end mid-2017, I'd just gotten back from a bender in Vegas, and I was ready for something different.
I'd more or less come to terms with the fact that I'd probably never get what I wanted because besides being a passionate woman, I'm a rather demanding one.
I wanted someone who was actually an equal. I wanted someone brilliant who was as ambitious as me. They had to be hot (obviously), great in the sack (duh), liberal (non-negotiable), love to travel, oh right and they had to also to be cool with…
