Rescue Me


You have been kidnapped. The characters from the last TV show or movie you watched are coming to rescue you. Who are they?

Lucifer from the show with the same name is rescuing me. That’s what they call from the frying pan to the fire. Yikes!!

What about you?

Going North?


Are we playing following the leader or Simon Says?

You Look Familiar

113 (2)

bazarre world

I can always tell when I haven’t taken my medication.

A voice in my head whispers, “If you can hear me, you haven’t taken your meds today.”


Meeting Games

I have been known to nod off in long meetings in which the topic has little to nothing to do with me. I’ve invented a game to stay awake, the one line game. Here’s a few from yesterday:

I new insanity was pervasive here, I just didn’t realize it was contagious.

Blue reminds me of the ocean, crystal clear skies, calm summer days. I hate blue.

I had under estimated the creature I hunted and Paulo had paid for it with his life.

Moments like this are why I don’t keep chocolate in my desk.

The edge of anything is always a bad place to be.

And one for you to finish –

Somewhere an old brain cell must have fired up again when I remembered <fill in the blank>.

Until the next boring meeting.

Picture it, a dark, smoke filled bar. I hiked myself up on a black leather stool. The bartender slid a glass of soda water with lime in front of me. (I gave up alcohol two weeks ago and can’t for the life of me remember why.)

I recognized a frail, elderly lady from a writer’s group at the end of the bar. She looked like the typical Grandmother: petite, prim and proper. She reminded me of Estelle Getty as Sofia on the Golden Girls. Let’s call her Gert.

I decided to join her trying to tap in to the wisdom a seasoned writer might impart.

“I’m taking it up the ass on ebooks,” Gert said as she down the last of her drink. She motioned to the bartender. “Give me another whiskey and make it the cheap stuff this time.” She sucked deeply on the cigarette she had in one hand. If I thought it was for show, she then blew so much smoke out of her nose I wondered at her lung capacity.

“Really?” I was curious now.

“Oh yea, Honey. I’ve been writing a long time. There wasn’t e-publishing back then.”

“I guess things were different.”

“Hells bells, I wrote my first manuscripts on a manual typewriter. It’s not like I saw it coming,” she continued, lighting another cigarette. “Bartender.” She motioned to her glass. “Give me another and no ice this time.” She launched into a coughing fit that I, as none smoker I was trying hard not to join.

This tiny, old lady continued discussing the good old days using expletives that would rival sailors and slamming whiskey straight up. My idea about Grandmas were completely shattered by this point.

Finally, I asked, “What genre do you write?”

“Erotica and none of this light hearted crap. I write hard core. The kind of stuff that use to come wrapped in brown paper.”

That’s when I almost choked on a peanut. Exercise caution when talking to whiskey slamming, chain smoking, foul mouthed Grandmas who writes hard core erotica.

%d bloggers like this: