The only unfulfilled love I’m willing to talk about openly is writing. And the realization that the love affair will never be reciprocated hurts just as much as that first time someone came out and said, “I like you. I just don’t like-like you.”
Writing will never like-like me. I’m too old, and it’s not that I’m too old as much as born at the wrong time – the non-generation. I’m not a baby boomer. I’m not a Me. I’m too old to be a Gen-Xer. Or Y and Z for that matter. I missed the computer age – I didn’t even have a computer until I got married and I was forty-one before I actually owned my own – a laptop, which took me a year to finally use with any kind of regularity. My kids know the VCR as the machine next to the TV that has never…
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Nina's Soap Bubble Box 