And don’t we all have our gashes. That wound that is just yours, in your secret tender spot. 100 people, poked in that particular place, might wince, might slap away a tiny sting in irritation. But you, you can’t stand even the thinnest chafe, the warmest puff of wind. The nerves are inflamed, torn muscles…
It’s not a “bucket list.” It’s my Rockstar Dreams. The fantasies I lived inside as a kid, clear into my twenties. I lived inside my head and though the rest of my self suffered for it, my health, my relationships, my strength of character, the interior of my skull was nourished and rich. I wanted…
This isn’t a New Year’s Resolution. This is what is whispered alone, only to yourself, when you’ve washed up on a strange but solid shore, chest heaving, frightened, shocked, but still alive. You’re alive. You’re going to need to fight to stay that way. Not vague, namby pamby promises. No. You are precisely aware of…
The first time Steve put his hands on me, I sighed, audibly, said, “Okay, then,” and thought, “So this is how it’s gonna be, eh?” I was displeased, not offended or violated.
To my ears, these nice ladies had just chirped “Hey you know what the Sistine Chapel needs? Some tract lighting with pretty scarfs draped over the bulbs! Hey, has anyone ever petitioned Congress to update the Statue of Liberty’s outfit?”
Don’t call them “Rebs” and don’t call it The War of Northern Aggression even in fun. OR in sincerity because you’re contrarian by nature and you’ve read waayyyyy too much about the Right of Secession. They will go pale, look frustrated or guilty or…..guiltstrated…. and not be able to think of how to respond.…
I’m a New York Times Best-Selling author. It’s rather technical, the NYT divides its non-fiction into sub categories. I’m on the Fashion, Manners and Customs list. I’ve decided it counts and have began dressing appropriately for a person befitting my station (see left). The big list…just plain “Non-Fiction Hardbacks”….I think you have to be on…
