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?