MEET THE SHK SENIOR EDITOR ROMY ERDOS, (MARKETING GURU FOR OUR AGENCY, NERVEWIRE)
ROMY WILL BE DOING A WEEKLY COLUMN, HERE’S #1:

WHY WRITING SUCKS WHEN YOUR LIFE RULES

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When asked to write a column, I immediately rifle through the bad-boyfriend memories, the awkward first dates and the bad sex stories we girls share over too many glasses of Pinot Noir. Who do I think I am, Carrie Fucking Bradshaw? Of course Carrie had a lot to write about, she dated plenty of strange fictitious men with mental issues! C’mon we all remember the Comic Book Guy and the Pee Politician.

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And don’t get me started on Lena been-there-Done-Him, of course she’s an amazing writer. I’ve seen her saggy tits more than I’ve seen my own! “Oh, don’t criticize Lena’s tits” you cry, “It’s liberating.”  Well, it’s TMI as far as I’m concerned and beside the point because obviously all this half-naked parading in her youth gave her an advantage as a writer, generating enough content to create an entire TV series out of. End rant.

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Sure in my late-teens/early twenties I woke up with plenty of hangovers and my cringe-worthy tales ran more rampant than the zombies on The Walking Dead. Regardless, I’d go out again the next night, meet a ton of socially accepted psycopaths, do more stupid things and create fucking fantastic stories. I dated guys that did my head in, boys that stood up in restaurants and announced they were on a date with me and I was the chair speaker at girl’s night. But since having a long-term (normal) boyfriend, a stable career — which, I must add, inhibits my “party girl” demeanor — I fear, I have become boring.

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OK, I know what you’re thinking, Not a great way to introduce your first column, Romy. A.) criticizing Lena Dunham… “Oh, hell NO!” and B.) announcing the fact you’ve become LAME. Oh, I see the bounce rate going up as we speak. So, now I declare that I am officially on the warpath to turning my diminishing wit and hilarity around and becoming the irresponsible girl and exciting writer I used to be.

Wait… So how the hell do I do that? Should I call my ex-boyfriend? You know, the one my girlfriends (my guyfriends, my dentist, the delivery guy, the local vagabond, basically anyone with ears) would hear me moan about? The one I complained about even more than how I don’t have “time” to go to the gym, how bad the New York winter is, how inconvenient going to Brooklyn can be, and how there aren’t enough vegetarian options anywhere, combined? Well, maybe one phone call to him would bring back all those insecurities that made me a good storyteller. Maybe he would take me on a date to Subway again and make me pay for his 6-inch (pun most certainly intended), or call me a 7-out-of-10 while the girl at the bank is 9.5?  If nothing else, at least I’d have a great “bumped into my ex” anecdote to tell you guys.

Then again, maybe I should blame my parents. Michael Jackson, Kurt Kobain and Oprah all allegedly had bad childhoods. I know this because I Googled “stars with bad childhoods.” Look how Drew Barrymore and Xtina Aguilera turned out…  Superstars! My childhood was obviously too satisfactory to compel me to become an amazing songwriter like Eminem or anything worth an E! True Hollywood Story. Sure, it wasn’t all smooth sailing — parents divorced, weight issues. But overall my private school upbringing left little to be written about. Oh woe is me.

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So this amazing boyfriend I told you about (the one whose only flaw is his ability to drip water in our house occasionally… yawn), told me about an interview with Twisted Sister frontman Dee Snider. Basically Twisted Sister songs were all about “fuck the man” and when Dee Snider was sitting in his mansion on the water with his wife and four kids, his five cars, boat and motorcycles — living it up — he couldn’t find inspiration anymore, he had lost the anger that made him a good songwriter.

Anyway, this rung true to me, except HE IS A FAMOUS ROCKSTAR! Where, apparently, thanks to my good parents and fantastic boyfriend, I am not.

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So what do I do? Something reckless? Do I dump my amazing and handsome (to me, anyway) boyfriend in search of something interesting to write? Do I quit my job and develop a raging drug and alcohol addiction? Or, do I just resort to being a typical girlfriend-girl who complains about her BF leaving the toilet seat up (he doesn’t even do that anyway). Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait and see… — ROMY.

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