Without
Sara: A
Sara: Hitch
Me: And then you fell in love with him
Sara: He was so sweet afterward
Me: I'm so fucking impressed. That's quite a skill.
Sara: It was
Sara: Sigh
Sara: And that is how Dr. Sara Snow almost got herself a baby daddy with a GED
Sara: I'm slowly getting over it
Sara: I’ll eventually forget
Sara: Maybe I should call him
Sara: We could get married
Sara: Then he can choke me for the next 7-10 years
Sara: You realize eventually I'll be intellectually disabled from lack of oxygen
Me: I love that autoerotic asphyxiation is what it takes to finally get Sara Snow to settle down.
Sara: Lol
Me: I’m calling matron of honor. Dibs on that shit.
Sara: If you think there will be a wedding you’re brain injured
Me: Alex wants a wedding!
Sara: That sounds exhausting
Me: Just a little one.
Sara: He may have already had one
Sara: I didn’t ask
Me: No he hasn’t!
Me: He’s been saving himself for you!
Me: Alex wants to write his own vows!
Me: Why do I feel like I know him so well?
Me: Oh, shit
Me: Is it because he’s me?
Sara: A clinger who wants to choke his partner?
Sara: He IS you
Me: You guys should make a baby.
Me: That baby would be my favorite person ever.
Sara: Good. Bc you’ll be raising it.
Me: I really need to start writing this shit down.
Sara: You’re gonna need something new to write about now that subliminal spousal bibliotherapy has been compromised :(
Me: Speaking of
Me: On a scale of 1 to 10
Sara: Oh shit
Me: How badly do you think I’ll get sued if I write a romance series based on each one of my exes?
Sara: Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!
Sara: Do it! You have to do it! This is your fucking purpose in life!!!
Me: Like, are we talking lose my house kind of sued?
Me: Or just lose my kids’ college funds kind of sued?
Sara: OMG I got it.
Sara: Just say that they’re fictional!
Sara: BOOM! Problem solved.
Me: Goddamn, you’re brilliant woman.
Sara: The term is meanius, thankyouverymuch
Me: Are you sure that will that work though?
Sara: Totally. Why wouldn’t it?
Because forty-four chapters simply weren’t enough...
Novels in the Upcoming
Four Men Saga
FIGHT FOR ME (KNIGHT)
WIN FOR ME (HARLEY)
PLAY FOR ME (HANS)
BEG FOR ME (KEN)
I suppose I should probably start by thanking my parents for resisting the urge to ship me off to a convent or have me fitted with a chastity belt when I was sixteen. The men I brought home—well, you know, they were pretty spectacular. I don’t think Confucius himself could have watched with my parents’ level of Zen-like stoicism while his only daughter gave it up to not only the village skinhead, but also a grown-ass man with no car, education, future, or hair covering his tattooed cranium, all before she even got her braces off.
Then again, maybe they should be thanking me for all the sainthood they’ve got coming when they die. I mean, by the time I graduated high school, my mom was already guaranteed an eternity spent smoking Bob Marley’s ganja and having three-ways with John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix.
So, you’re welcome, Mom and Dad.
I’d also like to thank my editor, Jovana Shirley, for making it all the way through this mess without ripping up my contract even once.
And to my beta readers, Sara, April, Stefani, and Lezlie—The fact that you ladies took my project seriously, devoted your time and brilliance to helping make it better, and mustered up enough enthusiasm to make me believe you weren’t just bullshitting me means more than you will ever know. I feel like I owe you all baby showers or something.
To George Elias, a copyright attorney Sara met at a party once, who gave me, like, two phone calls and three emails worth of free legal advice—You, sir, are a class act. Thank you.
And finally, I want to thank the women who have inspired me. These bitches go forth day after day in a blaze of brilliantly funny, flawed, fierce glory, giving zero fucks about the haters and leaving nothing but stereotypes and expectations in their wake. It is because of them that I found my own voice.
Oprah—For obvious reasons. Your face appears on my vision board at least three times.
Kelly Ripa—You are my spirit animal. Every time you dye your hair pink or flash a new tattoo or drop an F-bomb on daytime TV, you embolden me to fly my freak flag a little higher. Every time you waltz on stage, looking confident and radiant and sexy as hell, without a dollop of silicone or drop of saline, you remind me that my femininity, my worth, is not determined by my cup size. And every time you gush about your beautiful family, you give me hope that maybe we really can have it all.
Lena Dunham—You brilliant, honest, humble, hilarious writer/producer/actor/director/artist/feminist/activist, you. Way to make the rest of us feel like slobbering slack-jawed underachievers. I would say I want to be you when I grow up, but you’re fucking younger than me, too. Bitch.
Amy Schumer—Thanks a lot. I was going to write an entire book about Sara Snow, call it Trainwreck, and get Judd Apatow to turn it into a movie, but you went and beat me to it. It’s okay. I forgive you. Let’s be best friends.
Which brings me to you, Judd Apatow—Sorry to out you, but you, sir, are a big, fat feminist. You’re like a modern-day Gloria Steinem, only hairier and with a Y chromosome. And you’re much, much subtler. Every time someone cracks up over Maya Rudolph shitting in the street in a wedding dress or cringes at the sight of Katherine Heigl soberly trying to figure out how sex with Seth Rogen is supposed to work with her massive pregnant belly, they are being taught to see women as human beings rather than archetypes. Through your rom-coms and sitcoms, America is subconsciously learning that women can be sexy and gross and intelligent and maternal and successful and hilarious and flawed all at the same time. Don’t worry. Your secret agenda is safe with me.
To Jenny Lawson and Allie Brosh—Thank you for baring your souls and sharing your comedic genius with the world. Your books and blogs are the funniest things ever published. Jenny, I don’t even know how many of your jokes I referenced in this book because my brain just vomits up your punch lines whenever I’m searching for something clever to say. Just send me a bill. I’m sure I owe you something beyond just my undying admiration.
To Jay Crownover—Thank you for writing the men who inspired me to write about my own men, for always answering my questions, for greeting me with a genuine smile and an appreciative hug every time I came to one of your events even though you had no idea who I was, and for using your platform to promote other authors. You are a true badass.
To E L James, Olivia Cunning, Jamie McGuire, Abbi Glines, Colleen Hoover, Tillie Cole, Katy Evans, Jamie Shaw, and the countless other romance writers whose books ignited something in me, something feral, something forgotten, that simply would not be denied.
And to my little Instagram community of book bloggers, authors, and readers—You ladies are my greatest support system. You are the first ones to wish me a good morning every day and often the last ones to bid me a good night. Considering that most people in my real life don’t know this book exists, your enthusiasm, exuberance, and encouragement has meant more to me than you can imagine. To those of you who read my words—Thank you for your time. To those of you who made teasers—Thank you for your talent. To those of you who tagged me on your posts, whether they were dick pics or kittens riding unicorns—Thank you for your friendship. I love you beautiful book whores to the moon and back.