She writes to amuse/arouse/entertain herself and friends, saying, “If I can make a friend snort coffee or spit a muffin, I’ve done my job.”

Rollins started her craft in childhood, with numerous stories about the Beatles, in which they fell in love with her and continued creating long past their break-up point. She penned hilarious send-ups of her teachers, mean-girl revenge fantasies, and stories of personal triumph.

No friend to trees, Rollins wrote in an archaic long-hand style on lined “writing paper” or on reams of green-barred “computer paper.” Tormented by story ideas at various jobs, she would steal to the ladies’ room to capture dialogue on runners of toilet paper.

She learned to tap and ding on her mother’s IBM Selectric typewriter, stopping often to white-paint her mistakes, which, alas, discouraged editing.

Her father introduced her to a “computer” with a small black screen and a giant floppy disk. Overwhelmed by technology, she fell into a catatonic state and didn’t awaken until Mac computers made hoarding and hiding one’s stories at work so much easier.

A naturally bad writer, Rollins sucked for decades. Undaunted, she submitted embarrassing, overlong pieces for peer review inciting diplomacy skills in her friends.

Fellow writers shredded her work, stomped on it, peed on it, vacuumed it up and emptied it out on her head. A glutton for punishment, Rollins sought to prove her critics wrong. They were not.

Like many creatives, she was prone to despair and sometimes gave up her craft, only to need it again to climb out of the despair. To this day, she continues banging her head—er, writing—unable to stop.

Not the sharpest tool in the drawer, Rollins has finally realized the odds will always be stacked against her.

So, fuck the damn odds! Here is her work.