The short version? I’m George – writer, word-wrangler, and reformed ice-cream eating champion.
The long version?
Well, grab a coffee and settle in
If life’s a story, mine’s written in coffee stains and regret.
I’ve danced with shadows and flirted with oblivion
One day I’m king shit, the next I’m doing the tango with the Grim Reaper.
Talk about a wake-up call.
Mistakes? I’ve got a fucking library.
Hearts?
Broke more than a bull in a china shop, including my own.
I grew up Greek, which means I work like a mule and party like there’s no tomorrow.
The world kept screaming “Be a man!”
So I joined the Marines after 9/11 and decided to trade my daddy issues for Uncle Sam’s loving embrace.
Because nothing says “manhood” like getting shot at in a desert, right?
Boot camp was a cakewalk compared to what came next. Iraq turned out to be a all-expenses-paid trip to hell, complete with a front-row seat to watching my best friend check out early.
That’s when I discovered my true talents: spiraling into depression and making friends with every substance I could get my hands on.
But the Corps, in all its infinite wisdom, decided to keep me around.
I climbed the ranks like a drunk monkey, collecting life lessons and PTSD like they were going out of style.
Went from playing in the sandbox with the FBI to wearing big boy pants with Top Secret clearances.
Combat became my new normal. My passport looked like a international disaster tour – 40 countries and counting.
Somewhere between dodging bullets and questioning my life choices, I had an epiphany: maybe we’re all just players in this cosmic shit show.
A decade in, with more honor and conviction than brain cells left, I decided to hang up my cammies.
The uniform came off, but the baggage? That shit’s got a lifetime warranty.
Life became a checklist.
Marriage, fatherhood, chasing dreams – all boxes to tick off.
Why? Fuck if I know.
Depression became my roommate, guilt my drinking buddy.
But like every good train wreck, I eventually ran out of track.
Sobered up, traded my beer bottle for a yoga mat, and started vomiting my trauma onto paper.
Turns out, my words were the only things more fucked up than I was.
That’s when fate, that cruel mistress, decided to throw me a curveball.
Another jarhead, this one with a brain for business, stumbled into my life. He saw my mess of words and thought, “Hey, we can sell this shit.”
So there I was, a reformed drunk peddling my pain like a street corner psychic.
We dove headfirst into the cesspool of modern marketing.
SEO, social media, email lists – all the tricks to turn my misery into money.
Self-help, fiction, poetry – you name it, I wrote it.
Each one a beautifully packaged piece of my fractured psyche.
And you know what?
People ate it up.
Turns out, there’s a market for well-written emotional vomit.
Who knew?
Now, I’m laying it all bare.
Not to inspire you – I’m not that delusional.
But to show what happens when you stop running from your story and start writing the damn thing.
So here I am now, a yoga-doing, green-smoothie-drinking, best-selling author.
The American fucking dream, right?
Just don’t look too closely at the cracks in the facade.
They’re held together with bestseller royalties and the lingering fear that one day, people will realize I’m just as lost as they are.
Welcome to my world.
The bar’s always open, but we only serve reality here.
Enjoy the ride.