Proof I probably might be Dorothy Parker reincarnate:
We are both writers.
We both enjoy gin.
We are both unlucky in love, stemming from attractions to terrible and/or unavailable men.
We both love dogs.
We both have acerbic wits.
We are both lovers of the short story.
We both have bangs.
We both despise AA Milne.
She was part of the Algonquin Roundtable. One of my first jobs was at the Roundtable Steakhouse.
Apologies for the present tense weirdness involving a dead person. But, can a writer who's work lives on truly ever be dead? And I might be her?