About Bekah Rigby

So, um, yeah... I'm Bekah Rigby. And in case this whole introduction thingy isn't awkward enough, here's an uncomfortably large picture of me freaking the fuck out about a calendar featuring cats and sexy men:


Anyway, you've landed at the bit where I talk about myself. Well, really the whole blog is that. It's just one giant pile of word vomit about the shit that happens in my life. For real, folks. This ain't for the faint of heart or pure of soul. I'm going to make it rain uncomfortable up on this here blog.

Speaking of uncomfortable, my husband is Chris, a computer genius and once-upon-a-time Dungeons and Dragons master. We have two fur babies, Mycroft and Khaleesi. Before that, we had two other cats, Mac and Booger. But they died. Yeah, I'm sad, too.

I spent several years as a newspaper reporter, doing super important things like vetting Presidential candidates, exposing governmental abuse, analyzing crime, and featuring little old ladies' game-changing pickle recipes. I won awards and even got nominated for a Pulitzer. I didn't win the Pulitzer, but I'm going to go with the whole "it's an honor to even be nominated" bit, because that's what losers do.

On a whim, I quit journalism, decided to pursue a PhD in psychology, returned to college, then grew a tumor, became super sick, got super fat, and abandoned all my life plans and instead opted to sit here and write about whatever the fuck flits across my brain waves.

When I'm not watching Stargate Atlantis or ordering chicken wings, I'm writing about such compelling issues as fat vaginas, colonoscopies, and that time my ex randomly contacted me to threaten to eat my cats. I'm a corpulent gal who struggles mightily with weight issues, and I have family drama like whoa. I love Indian curry just as much as I love Tim Curry, and if I could be anything when I grow up, I would be a white man, because I've heard they've got it pretty good.

And that's me in a nutshell. Except I can't fit in a nutshell. And it's not because I'm fat, okay? YOU try fitting into a nutshell. It can't be done.

Peace out, y'all!