Philosophical fun with the flu

I'm sick.  I will be better before I get to read through ALL your messages of sympathy so don't send one.  Buy my book instead.  But I have never been so philosophical about illness and I wonder if it is age-related or what.

Last week I felt like every muscle in my body was complaining as though  I'd gotten/I got out of a risen   I rose from a wheelchair and ran a marathon.  And, no, that is not politically incorrect cuz if I didn't have surgery eight years ago, I would be in a wheelchair.  Then Thanksgiving was its usual depressing downer and I woke up Friday feeling sick.  I mentioned to my daughter that it would be interesting to know what the germ does in your body to make you feel this way and she offered me her Pathophysiology text.  Okay, I am not that interested.
 
So I've just been sleeping and reading a lot and taking so much medicine.  Benadryl and guiafenesin and aspirin or ibuprofen plus the usual daily six pack (not beer, for God's sake.)  And I would have an English muffin (which I fork-split) just because I thought my stomach could not bear the chemical assault, but then I would feel like I was going to lose that, small wonder the chemical stew in there.  And my mind feels fine, but is really racing, more than usual.  I think the pressure from the sinuses causes this.  I offer myself as test subject. And today Fran wanted to do secret shopping for the kiddos and I wanted so much to go along and look at toys and play with the Fisher-Price pianos and stuff. So we go Panera and Toys r us and she swings through the ATM lane which is half way back to my house and I said, maybe you should take me home cuz I don't feel so good.  I get out of her car and I STAGGERED.  You know how people always use that word and really what does it mean?  I staggered over and leaned on a tree then staggered to the porch and leaned on the door and got the door open and leaned on the wall and  slowly staggered up the six stairs. I am sure the neighbors think I had a three martini lunch.

What is being "sick"?  It doesn't hurt.  It's just like weirdness and a different feeling in every cell.  I don't even have a fever. And they say 'that song is sick' and it could mean it is great or horrible.  "You sick bastard!" is definitely negative but frequently said with a laugh. Well, it's a good reason to rest up and slack off and make people go buy you popsicles.  And I am almost finished with a little mystery book that popped out of the bookcase at me that was published in 1968 and is actually pretty good.  There's a right moment for everything.  So, back to my book.  I'll be fine tomorrow.  Which is what I thought last night.

I was dabbling with the Kindle last night or afternoon, it is all a blur to me, and I was reading my own book, which I do all the time, and I noticed I use the word GOT an awful lot.


Today's CTA:  what is your favorite flavor popsicle?

Thanksgiving Oatmeal

WARNING!!  This is a complete downer.


I have these pictures when Fran was about three and it is my dining room on Elmwood and this long dining table and this huge turkey and this beautiful tablecloth and Lou and Fran and me.  My parents were in Florida having their Turkey dinner at the rec hall and enjoying the hell out of it and you didn't have to wash dishes unless your state was on the social committee that month which happened every 52 plus months because a lot of the people lived in Canada. And everyone else in my family and in Louie's family had something better do to.  Actually, they don't like us.

So this year I took the leaf out of the table and the dining room is a little smaller on Hazelwood and it will be Lou and me and my dad, because after my mom died, my dad didn't have anyone to have Thanksgiving dinner with and Fran married into this huge close knit family and we are like the wrinkly old people that scare the little kids.   I bought the smallest Turkey in the case and I was invited somewhere by someone nice, but I got this terrible haircut and kind of didn't know what to do with my dad, and Cassie doesn't know if she will be home in  time to sit with us and I thought Louie had to work, but he doesn't, so at least he will be there, otherwise it would be me and my dad.  How fucking pitiful is  that?

But the one that sticks in my mind as the quintessential Thanksgiving day celebration was the year that I gave birth to a six pound stillborn baby boy on November eighteenth and was told I had to buck up and go to auntie's in Glenview for Thanksgiving dinner.  And in those days no one acknowledged that you might be feeling grief or sadness and God forbid you should show it and it was cold and drizzly and we are driving out there, me bleeding and breasts aching, and we see this horrible seven car pile up on the Interstate and they are shoveling bodies into ambulances and we get to Auntie's and I get a big hug and "How are you?"  Seriously, auntie, what the fuck do you think?  I commented that I wasn't feeling too well yet (faux pas in those days) and we saw this horrible accident on the highway and she says, "Oh, today, you have to remember all that you are thankful for."  No.  I don't want to.  And I really should get over it but that is the clincher, like the only parade you will ever remember is when the huge balloon broke free and killed that little boy.

So, you know Google Plus and how it is a huge pain in the neck?  Well, I think it saved my life today.  They had this riff from The Oatmeal about Thanksgiving and I laughed out loud about four times. Thank you Francesca for cluing me into The Oatmeal.  And , everyone, have a happy Holiday.  I love turkey and I make the best gravy in the whole fucking world.  Your loss.

Straightening things out.

SEE?

Obviously

I have the Style Guide thing all worked out and I figured out how to load non Amazon stuff on my Kindle.  No.  I didn't figure it out.  I figured out how to follow someones perfectly explicit and clear  directions.  So, obviously, I have no more barriers in the way of my getting on with publishing my book and a half, and, obviously, my head is spinning with thoughts that need to pour out.  You can't stop me from pouring them out. Just don't read them if you don't like them.  If it will make the inside of your head feel better, you can even delete them.  But, I am warning you, that would be a mistake. Anyway, this whole rant is a stall and a waste of everyones time.

The  theme of today's discussion is tattling.  If you were ever a mom, you know the painful dichotomy of trying to teach  your kids not to be a tattle tale and having the burden of knowing they are aware of something horrible going on that they are afraid of telling because they don't want to be a tattle tale. These bits of knowledge may run the gamut from Joey taking that dime that you left on the dryer after it fell out of someones jeans, or he let that horrible little boy down the street ride his bike and that is why it is broken, but after all, he will man up and take the blame because you already told him  not to let that creature ride the brand new bike, and he cannot possibly tattle on the horrible creature.  First of all it would be tattling, and foremost, the horrible child would maim him for life.   Somewhere along the line, most children learn to determine that it is a necessity to tell your mommy that you saw Mr. Jorgenson burying his wife under the birdbath and you should just keep quiet about the fact that your sister puts lipstick on as soon as she is half way down the block.

But not everyone gets to this place in their life.  I was standing at the service desk in WalMart, waiting to send the latest multi thousand dollar money order to my lover that  lives on a small Greek Island when a woman came in and CUT in line, her mission was so important.  She gave the description and license numbers of several cars in the parking lot that had ignored and/or disobeyed the handicap sign regulations and she demanded that the service desk commander, already stressed because she was alone and eight people were already waiting  in line, call the local police immediately to come and cite these people for their malfeasance.
The service desk person began to look about for the telephone book, muttering how she didn't have the number at hand and couldn't this wait while she took care of the other people ahead of her, and the parking space troll said it had to be done immediately in case the people breaking this law left before they were properly chastised and made to give up a portion of their time and their personal fortune because of their sin and "the number is written right here on your desk blotter because I saw it there yesterday".  This is the woman's hobby.

Before I got my new prosthetic knees and it still hurt to walk, I nudged a shopping cart up a little with my car so I could fit into a space closer to the store and the shopping cart rolled into the corral for carts that was directly in front of the space I had chosen.  A woman saw this and circumnavigated the lot  so she could drive all the way back to tell me she didn't think I should do that because the cart corral deserved that space also. By this time I had left the car and was walking toward the store and exaggerating my crippled hobble for her benefit.  I said, "Call the police." and went into the store.  She may have been the Wal Mart parking lot troll and I just caught her at shank's end of her daily forays.

My neighbor's children raised a few chickens, maybe five, for a 4-H project.  They built a maze type structure for the chickens to play in which extended into my yard.  One of our more observant neighbors reported us.  The police showed up at my house.  I blurted, "but they are Miller's chickens".  The Millers, eleven years later, still refer to this as me reporting them to the police.  At least they are being facetious.  I hope.

I made a half joking remark on a thread that I didn't need to be on, one never does need to be on a thread actually, about how I had cheated on the NaNoWriMo contest (if you don't know what that is, leave well enough alone cuz it is stupid) by posting a novel I had finished writing months before.  I was called out for my moral turpitude and lectured on how that would destroy my character and tarnish my legacy, if I was not already beyond hope, which they pointedly remarked, I must already be.

I was discussing the variety of resources one could access when making or buying cover art for their self-published works, and I mentioned that one image I used was gifted, three were purchased and one was stolen.  I got  the lecture about copyright law and how someone would come after me.  What?  Are they going to confiscate my royalties?  Good luck with that.

Then there are the times when you (at least I) sit and mull about how you let so and so get away with such and such, and how one person you know sues anyone and everyone for anything and everything, and the only thing I can come up with is something my mom said.  And I am not given to quoting bon mot from my mother because she was not too big on that, preferring the Martini as a coping mechanism; "Mend your own fences."  Which, I will translate for you, my beloved readers, "Mend your own fucking fences, asshole."

Today's provocative, dialogue inducing question: Do you even have a fence?

It Happened Again

When you do this indie publishing thing, you(I)  hear from so many people that are so opposed to it.   I, personally, am all over the map about is this whoring?  Is this frustration?  Is this vanity?  Is this a need to enlighten?  Is this a waste of my time and other's time and space?  When the gauge by which you judge yourself is so palpable and undeniable as actual dollars or actual printed words, it is so easy to let yourself be wracked by self doubt.  I think this is normal.  I don't think I am particularly more or less filled with self doubt than any other Joe Shmoe.  And I already discussed being a Joe Shmoe and being accepting of that. And I totally feel that putting your words and thoughts out in the public eye indicates that there is a lot more going on than self doubt.  And then you get a random review from a random stranger and you are jubilant.  Not so much an ego thing, that they Like you, like Sally Field, but that the words they chose indicate they get what you are saying.  This holds far more meaning for me than having someone say  "Your style is so fun or amazing, or ridiculous, or convoluted, or strange, or  stupid, or hideous."

But then you are kind of noticing a person, and identifying with their doubts and their struggles and you go so far as to compliment them and try to encourage them and buoy them up a bit and thank them for sharing with you, and then you read something, and it is like Holy Shit.  This sucks.  This makes no sense.  I can't follow this.  My sophomore English teacher gave me more props than this will ever get.  This is fucking hopeless.  What do you do?  I know what I do, what I will do, what is the only comfortable path for me.  I am going to fade out of the scenario.  And I'm gonna wonder.  Self doubt?  Apparently I have none.  Apparently there is just a certain blindness people have.  Apparently people that love me want me to just stay in my cloud of self-delusionment for fear  of hurting me (which never seemed to bother them before) or robbing me, in my final moments, of my last thread of hope.. . Or apparently I can write.

And, you know what?  I will never have an answer for that. 

The Pain of Knowledge

There was some cowboy sidekick guy that was always saying "You young whippersnappers". I am doing my doctoral dissertation on the origins and underlying meanings behind that phrase and its usage.

It was a chilly, drizzly, windy day in North Suburban Chicago, a place where everyone knows we have four nice days a year.  The doorbell rang.  An unusual occurrence causing  the dog to freak.  Spellcheck picked up three errors in that one sentence.

It was AT(&)T Uverse salesmen and we welcomed them into the foyer--a  lovely warm room.  They went on and on to my spouse.  I kept interjecting.  I finally introduced myself into the conversation, introduced in the sense of inserting, not in the sense of saying my name.  I stated that it was my decision since it was my portion of the allowance and my name on the account and I was ready to say yes, BUT. . .

By now one of the youngsters was sitting on the staircase, as was I, and a third lovely young lady had joined us.  She was carrying a Glock 27 with gold engraving  on the butt and shot the dog.  Just kidding.

I asked a few questions like would I still get STARZ (Are those peni on Spartacus prosthetic?  This has yet to be answered.) (No.  I didn't ask the salesman that.  Really, now. . .  Why would you even think that?)  and how long was the promotional period and it soon became time to initial documents which I was prepared to do since they had assured me they were not contracts, but simply payment agreements.  That's a new one, huh?  At one point the young man answered a question I posed and I said,  "Yeah.  But you might be playing me.  You kind of look like you are."  He was classically dumbfounded.  Or at least the expression on his face indicated that. Someone had to pick up the conversational ball that he dropped at that moment. 

There was quite a bit of banter about our incredible age and their incredible youth and local dialect and what it was like to live in Riyadh, even for short periods of time.  And I said, "Okay, but recently I was discussing things with a local resident and she mentioned that uVerse was supposed to be the best but we couldn't get it in our area."  The young man had earlier reassured my husband that they had surreptitiously inserted fiber optic cable under our driveway, at which time, while the theme from The Twilight Zone played softly in the background, I bit my tongue so as not to embarrass my spouse who actually worked repairing engines in Nuclear submarines and actually installed fiber optic cable under the Chicago River.  I was dismayed that he was buying that story, but I know men of his age frequently have minor neurological events that can impair their thinking processes.

As a sort of reply to my comment,  the young whippersnapper sitting near me in the stairwell shook a bundle of papers at me and said, "Would we be out in this weather if we didn't already have that information?" in what can only be described as a snippy tone.  And she showed me our address on one of her pieces of paper.  Now  my spouse was clearly biting his tongue--I knew this cuz blood was flowing down his chin--(just kidding again) because I frequently embarrass him with my outbursts of knowledge that he thinks I manufacture on the spot since he knows I wouldn't be married to him if I had a working brain cell. So off they went into the unpleasant weather, glowing and congratulating each other for another job well done, another sale they closed, another success story to last them the rest of their lives.

Three days later, my husband played back a few voice mails.  We do this once a year.  There was a message from AT(&)T stating that uVerse was not yet available in our area, but if we called them in a few months maybe they could help us. Once again, fuck me.

I have found that most bloggers end their blogs with a provocative question, probably to encourage commenting and continued social intercourse.

How do you slice an English Muffin?

Postponement and Apologia

For  those of you that have entered these hallowed halls eagerly anticipating the thrilling cable saga, I must apologize most humbly.  I am unable to present it this evening.  Please do not hold this against me and let me plead for you to continue your disproportionately appreciated patronage.  I have a wonderful reason.  It is valid and not to be mistaken for an excuse.

The part of my brain that exudes philosophical thought has swelled up.  It hurts and I plan to take a shitload of drugs and ice it.

The Big Reason Why

Concerning the madness that is the current state of the publishing industry:

I should not be bothering.  People are BUYING, with apparent intellectual deliberation, apparently with actual money, books about whales that live in the center of the sun.  Fuck me.

First of all, how would you get close enough to the actual sun to determine it had life forms within it, and then how would you be able to navigate through the corona of blazing hydrogen in order to communicate and interact with the creatures you there discovered.  And, if any type of life form was able (were able?) to evolve under the conditions that exist within the center of  the sun that must be rather horrendous considering that the end result is a corona of blazing hydrogen, why would that life form be a fucking whale.  Seriously?

And B, why would anyone choose to interact with that life form if they did happen to be able to transnavigate the possible hazards of entering and hoping to exit a blazing hydrogen corona. Were they hoping to gather information that would be useful to them the next time they choose to discover whether or not it would be possible to enter the center of an object in space whose corona was perhaps blazing nitrogen?

And last and least, why would anyone want to write about such an unlikely combination of specific threads?  I am thinking taking those little poetry magnets off the fridge door and shaking them about in a plastic jug and allowing seven of them to fall to the floor which would then become the title of your next literary masterpiece.

And then again, WHY would someone want to read about it?  I am sure the person that entered the sun was the same person who owned the derelict salvage hauling space craft that contained the cargo of eggs which held embryonic, almost ready to hatch, male sex slaves with two peni.  Fucking big eggs I imagine.  Either that or really tiny male sex slaves with therefore tinier peni, explaining in a logical sort of way why he had to have two of them.

This is a BUSINESS that people sit around and form marketing plans for, and discuss, and go to school and pay a lot of tuition money to be accepted in the world of publishing. But then again, considering what is going on around me, tomorrow the cable tale, why would I expect anything other than complete insanity?  And why do I worry about what is going on inside my head.  It beats the hell out of what y'all are trying desperately to pass off as reality.  

Ennui

(No, seriously.  What is with google?  The whole frigging thing just disappears?)

I do not understand how universities and colleges can create Marketing curricula.  It all seems entirely random to me.  I post just to be posting what seems kind of a run on of blather, and it receives WAAY more hits than the one's I deliberately plan and promote.  Why?

I am so sick of uploading or downloading pictures and  manuscripts and style guides, I just want to never do it again and think I never should have started this because it is like dope.  "Today I'll only take two of those and one of those.  Whoops!  They are all gone. Where did they go?  I wish I never started with them"  And looking at stats and comments is EXACTLY like counting how many xanax I have left.  At least to me.  Maybe you are healthy or something.

And checking to see if the late night or early morning flashes of literary brilliance have made it from the little orange Mickey Mouse notebook into the proper manuscript.  The last MS I uploaded was so full of errors.  Thank the powers that be that I am now a freaking expert on how to edit, search and replace and upload new versions in matters of minutes.  (Put it on your Kindle and make the notes there.)  And at least and at last, it is up, and actually sold already, but I haven't put it on Smashwords because for some ungodly reason the guide stored as individual little jpegs and it would take hours to find anything so I have to remember how I did that before so I could just keep it minimized on the desktop while I work. And I am absolutely thinking what a waste of these last few precious minutes I have on Earth and why am I not waxing floors or doing something someone might actually appreciate (what exactly would that be?) when I look and see there is a huge bump in sales.  Why?

I am absolutely at the place where I am calling the characters by the wrong name.  Or, honestly, forgetting what name I gave a character. I swore I would stop at four.  I couldn't imagine getting any more ideas to run with since I don't know where the ideas ever came from in the first place, although I am pretty sure it is because of the change in meds. But, lo and behold, or not, as you choose, there I am at two in the morning doing three or four thousand words on Jenny's first marriage. Why?

Did you ever google yourself?  Do you think that is a sick thing to do?  There are 63,000 entries under Virginia Llorca.  There is a twenty one year old girl in North Carolina named Virginia Llorca.  How the fuck could that happen?  I have stressed promoting that as my brand name cuz I thought it was so one of a kind-ish.  She's probably getting all my royalty checks.  Where else would they ALL be? 

I swear to God and the gods, if I see one mention of the word ennui in anyone's blog this week, they are gonna get it.

Notoriety and Personality

I have always wanted to be me.  I think I have discussed this before.  I had a friend in high school who wished fervently she was a male.  She never had any of what may be called gender issues in actual fact and turned out to function just fine as a wife and a mom, and I think it was more of a comment on the way females were considered by society at that time.  And, no, you don't need to know what that time was.  But I have always been happy to be me.  I have been depressed and embarrassed and angry at things I have done or had to deal with, but I am definitely the person who knows the truth about the saying, "If you could trade your bag of troubles for someone else's, you would always pick your own."  And, lately, I have put myself out in the public eye a little more than I have ever done before, so I should expect more feedback, both negative and positive.  But something really weird happened.  I am moderated out of a certain discussion group automatically.  I have participated in this discussion group for a long time, but always on a very limited basis, and it is true that my avatar may be considered in poor taste by some and that may be the reason. Although it was never the reason before.  But, I am the first to tell you, I am failing in many respects due to health issues, and one of the first things I notice, and I am sure others noticed it long before it became apparent to me, is the deficiency in my short term memory.  I know this is perfectly normal and I am not too worried about it and do the crosswords and stuff to keep the synapses firing, but still, I feel, even admitting I am kind of an ass, my basic intellect is still with me.  Maybe not as easy to access.  But I don't think I have become "stupid".  I mean every one is stupid about something, right, especially if they are in love, but I haven't lost the ability to think and figure out stuff.  I honestly think I am moderated out of this discussion group, damn, I wish I could say who it is, no, it's not Mises, and damn, I wish you really could give a shit, but I think the person who writes the column cannot deal with my remarks. I think they do not know how to deal with it, or counter it, or whatever, and whether or not it is relevant to the discussion, my remarks are never argumentative.  They can always be classified as comments.  Well, I just thought it was interesting, especially since it has come on the heels of my learning that twitter works.

And a very successful writer used this phrase in the very successful writer's blog recently, ". . .  where you can get it at."  This is supposed to be Midwestern, specifically, some believe, Chicagoan.  My sister in law teases me about it cuz I say like:  "are you going with?"and it creeps into the every day language, especially if you have not spent much time out of the Midwest.(Me.) But I thought, for someone who has sold many millions of words and therefore 26 million more letters of the alphabet that this was kind of glaring.  I know everyone could use a good editor, and, briefly, I was one, and even editors miss errors.  And I put stuff like "y'all" into my sentences frequently, mostly cuz it is so convenient a construction, and, for God's sake, my own, very bright and highly educated daughter says "sangwich", Jesus, but I thought this one really popped out.  And it bugs me how some people are in the right place at the right  time even when they may not be the person that should have been in that right place at that particular right time.  So I am jealous.  A certain work of my own literary aspirations has been downloaded 104 times in the last week, and I maybe just kind of want to work that into the conversation, and how very sorry I am that it was for a free offer and only about one percent of those people are willing to pay real cash money for said work. And I am totally thrilled to get the word out, by  any means, and I am getting pretty damned whorish about that part of it, but, whatever.  Professional jealousy comes with the territory.  I just hope certain people maintain their humility in the glare of their fame.  Oh, sure, that's what I mean. Really.

And Delaney got her ears pierced today and I cried more than she did.  Is it that wrong of me to consider that her good nature is genetically anomalous?  

Hugest compliment. Hugest thank you.

Someone gets it.  How lucky I am.


Review by: Sue Leonhardt on Nov. 07, 2011 :     
I received "Lawman" by Virginia Llorca through the Goodreads ebook giveaway.Can two hearts make time for each other, with their busy lives, and make it work? This is a fast paced fun read about a young widow and a Government "operative". He tries to keep the needed secrecy of his job from interfering with his hoped for relationship with a willful young widow. Lily Scofeldt is a 24 year old widow with two preschool children living in Iowa,and agent Tim  Raia is also divorced with a 13 year old daughter living in Chicago.These people never seem to get out of bed. Lots of quickies.I laughed when Tim left her house one time and said" Thank you sincerely for the hospitality".This book is light entertainment. Easy read but it shows the deeper side of what it takes to commit to a relationship, second time around.

reviews

Someone put up the most super negative review imaginable about LAWMAN on Goodreads.  I must be getting good at this cuz it gave me a chuckle.  She said one line (which she quoted incorrectly, and which I admit, was one of my better ones) was "exquisite".  So I'm going to do like they do in the movie ads:

Review of Lawman in Goodreads:  "Exquisite."


http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005KN6S4E

Sweet Sex in the Shower

EXCERPT from The Maze

"Maisie.”

“We shouldn’t talk.  We shouldn’t talk about it.  It’s getting dark out.  We didn’t have dinner.  We should go get dinner.”

“Maisie.”

“Shh.”  She got up and walked to the shower and she had to go past two beds and across the room and he was stunned.  Where was he?  Why were they here?  Why was she with him?  How can someone’s ass look that perfect?  And it moves when her legs move.  And it’s so cute.  The way that happens.  

And she turned to go into the bathroom.  Her breasts barely move when she walks.  They fit her so perfectly.  That is just amazing.  Everyone else’s breasts are way too big.  That is exactly how they are supposed to be.  How come I never noticed that before?  No.  I noticed it.  I was just afraid to think about it.  Those other breasts were the only ones available.  I am really glad I finally got to see the right ones.  The perfect ones.  She let me touch them.  She let me make love to her.  We had sex.  She made love to me.  I. . . 

He walked into the bathroom and got into the shower with her.  This must be a nice hotel.  This is a beautiful shower.  And she lathered up her hair and she lathered up his hair and she soaped up her hands and ran them over her body and between her legs and then she took the bar of soap and rubbed it in her hands until they got all bubbly again and she was chuckling softly.  He kind of thought she was smiling out loud again.  She ran her slippery soapy hands over his chest and under his arms and down between his legs and she washed him.  He stood under the most wonderful showerhead in the world in the most beautiful shower stall in the world with Maisie.  And she washed him.  And then she took the spray shower and rinsed all the soap off him and she pushed him down just a little bit, but, really, he thought, in a very gentle, encouraging kind of way, so that he had to sit on the ceramic tiled bench that was so beautifully constructed into the side of this wonderful shower and she knelt down in front of him and took his penis into her mouth and her mouth was even warmer than the shower, the most wonderful mouth in the world, the most beautiful mouth, Maisie’s mouth, Maisie’s lips, Maisie’s tongue, and wow, even a little bit there with Maisie’s teeth, and he thought, I’m dying. I’m dying.  Oh, my God.  I’m dying.  And so she sucked the last little bit of life from him.  But he didn’t feel dead.  He felt so happy.  I’m so happy. Maisie makes me so happy.  She lets me touch her.  She makes me come.  She fucks me.  She blows me.  I am the happiest person in the whole world.  The world is so beautiful.  God must love me.  I hope I never wake up.  “Here.  Here.  Please.”  And she was holding his hand and forcing it between her legs.  Forcing him to touch her there.  “Please.”  She was begging him to touch her.  Honest to God, begging.  I should touch her like this.  She will like it if I touch her like this.  Oh, God.  I’m getting hard again.  I love to touch her here.  I think she likes this.  And she said, “Ummm.”  And she lowered herself onto his cock and rode off into that wonderful empty distance and he followed her and he was so glad.  So happy.  I hope I never wake up.

“We have to get dinner.  I’m starving.”

http://www.amazon/com/dp/B0061SB3TC

Second Thoughts

Remorse?  I put  up an excerpt from book three and then took it down.  I was ticked because it didn't make a wave on twitter.  Then I notice ten links from twitter.   I am an ass.

I am hating the mood swings lately. Usually I know enough to go with it and get what I can out of it, but I usually know the precipitating factors.  I had to take my MS down cuz I saw (on my beloved Kindle) that it was awash in typos and an actual MISSPELLED word.  I wonder what else is in there that I didn't notice.  but I was so nervous about re posting.  Kindle tried to do a one up on the Smashwords Style guide and it got me all anxious.  I just did it the old way.  So I was nervous about that and now it is done, so I guess I feel like this because I dealt with the source of the anxiety, but I would prefer to feel like this at nine a.m., thank you.  Then maybe I'd get that kitchen floor done. And I know the book was full of errors cuz I am so not into it anymore.  One person found one typo in the first book.

I want to go outside and shoot that satellite down.