When I started writing for Cosmopolitan two years ago, I thought it interesting to run back to my old alma mater and say a prayer to the gods that spoke Latin and Hebrew and Aramaic and that snake language in Harry Potter. It was a nice gesture on my part I think, or at least the (no)person that heard me spoke a little russian which is cool, so I guess it all worked out in the end. One thing that bugs me about this business though, is the constant, constant, constant, ever so constant drive to succeed and be the best photographer or jewel thief or craft production assistant or congratulatory handshake giver/taker (which is an ironic gesture in its own right and obviously takes a little more than a hug to take a handshake and give a shook hand, which can be difficult in its own right because of the fact of giving a shook hand could possibly be a lymph node stuck in the eye, or just a hand tired from shaking, whichever one my doctor tells the therapist who tells the vampire at a bar in hamilton, ny, that little fuck!)

So that's my beef with the business. What's yours? Bill Martin? No, he's a good man, he has his own beef with the business, he'll tell you someday, he told me last night. I want to say syncopatic. There, I said it, hopefully its a word.