Easy by Tammara Webber

I love this cover. It fits the book so perfectly and even (maybe ridiculously) brings to mind the old chicken riddle. Which came first: the chicken or the egg? Or in this case, the book or the cover? Now I know which came first (at least, I think I do), but in that tiny, beat-down part of my brain that was once wistful and romantic, I could look at this cover and almost imagine someone else being so enchanted by it that they felt a need to write their story. "Their" being two people so internally lovely and strong you can't help but fall in love yourself. Oh, sure, there was plenty of conflict, but not the overly-complicated pull-your-hair-out kind of drama that makes you want to put your head through a wall. I loved Lucas and Jacqueline... and not just as a couple, but as individuals as well. I just plain loved all over this book. There couldn't possibly have been a better one to read after the neurotic shit-storm that was Thoughtless. (Yes, I'm still talking about it.) I am hoping with every fiber of my being that Ms. Webber sees fit to continue this story. (My wistful parts are sighing with longing.)

Thoughtless by S.C. Stephens

I present to you a series of Facebook comments I posted to a friend's wall between 3 and 7 a.m. (which is when I read the last half of this book). (Yes, I am still suffering the consequences of staying up until 7 a.m. thankyouverymuch.)

"Okay, it's official. I hate her." (Her = Keira, the lead. And I really did. I've never disliked a lead character so much.)

"Fuck this book. HOW ARE THERE STILL 70 PAGES LEFT?!" (There was enough drama to make two books.)

"HATE. THIS. BITCH." (See? I really did hate her.)

"Oops. Didn't mean to shout that, but yeah. HATE!"

"I can't believe I chose this book. I detest it." (No, not really. But it sure did induce some very strong emotions. As you can probably tell.)

"No, I'm still not done. Fuck this book again. I finally stopped crying and now I'm starving. I'm gonna be awake to see the sun rise. FML." (There's nothing worse than staying up so late that you get hungry.) (Also, I don't care for the acronym "FML," but in this case, I felt it was appropriate.)

"Did I mention this bitch needs to be punched in the face. She stands around for half the book like a fucking mute!" (There was one scene in particular where her silence made me want to do serious bodily harm. It was awful. I cried.)

"The cursing is out of hand, I know... But if ever a book deserved a few F words, it's THIS ONE."

"And now I'm dead. Good freaking night." (Obviously Goodreads needs to add a 6th star. One that means "my head just exploded.")

If I were to rate the book based on how thoroughly it engaged my emotions, 5 stars easy. If I were to rate it based on how I felt about Keira, 1 star. On how it has kept my attention even after I've finished reading? 5 stars.

Yesterday, I found a fan made trailer for the book. Watching it, even after having FINISHED READING, got me almost... giddy. So maybe I loved it.

Or I hated it.

I'm still not sure.

Beautiful Disaster. Of a book cover.

I admit it. I read Fifty Shades of Grey recently. (Who hasn't?) And I was totally sucked in. But, after book two, I decided that the only thing I actually liked about it was the sexy dominant who wasn't really a dominant at all, but a guy who liked to beat the shit out of women that looked like his crack whore of a mother. Yes, really.

I never made it to the third book and wish I'd refrained from the second. (The only reason I even read it in the first place was because it had originated as Twilight fan fiction. Can you really blame me for being intrigued?) And because I don't learn from my mistakes, I then read Bared to You. Because it was supposed to be a "better written" Fifty Shades.

What this means is that everyone is copying everyone else and I just want to reread Twilight. But clearly there's something about these books that entertains me because here I am reading another book found on the "hot men with control issues and obsessive compulsive disorders" list. (No, not really.)

Except, for me, books are like food. I eat with my eyes first and book covers are important. This one (of the book I'm about to start) was all dark and angsty and I totally dug it.



And then I saw an alternative:



And I was all grossed out because at first glance it looks like a really filthy tongue. But then, horror of all horrors, I noticed that the J in the authors name is cut off and now I'm just not sure I can read this book after all.

A big, fat story.

I have a friend. For the sake of anonymity, we'll call her... Fatty. Trust me, it's appropriate. This is Fatty's story. Her big, fat, horrifying story. (And if you think it sounds familiar, it doesn't.)

Once a upon a time, there was a young girl. Fatty was an average girl in an average family growing up in an average city. If asked, most people would have denied, even vehemently, that Fatty was fat. "It's just baby weight!" her mom would say. "She's just a little pudgy," others would chime in. But all thought she'd eventually grow out of it.

Fatty didn't think about her weight. It never occurred to her that she should. No one ever said "you might want to skip a meal" or "maybe, instead of dessert, you could have another round of NOT EATING."

On the bright side, because no one ever broached the topic, Fatty grew up without the body image issues of so many of her peers. It wasn't that she didn't care... she just didn't know she should.

Fatty got older. She met a boy, fell in love, and got engaged. And then, one day during her engagement, she stepped on a scale. Just for kicks, she thought. She wasn't prepared for the three-digit number that started with a two to rear it's ugly head and snap at her. She stumbled back in shock. It just couldn't be possible! How had she not known?!

And thus it started. A lifetime of struggling with her weight.

Fatty went on a diet. Since she had never done so before, she really had no concept of what "dieting" even meant. She had never paid attention to things like calories and fat and carbohydrates. She could only do what sounded logical.

1. Eat less. A lot less.

The first 25 pounds came off quickly. The rest a bit slower.

Over the next five years, Fatty would try all sorts of diets. Atkins, South Beach, the Slim Fast plan and more. Finally, she tried Weight Watchers and was quite successful. It took nearly two years, but she finally reached her goal weight of 135.

Now, I need to interrupt for a moment and tell you a quick story. Yes, a story within a story. Trust me. It's relevant. You'll want to remember this.

Fatty worked with a woman who was also overweight. As Fatty got closer to her goal, she noticed (well, it was pointed out to her as Fatty isn't very observant) that said co-worker was also losing weight and quite a bit at that. One day, Fatty and co-worker passed each other in the hall. They got to talking and Fatty felt it would be remiss if she didn't comment on her co-worker's weight loss achievements. So she did. And to Fatty's surprise, the co-worker beamed at her and said, "It's all because of you!" Turns out, she had been inspired (her word) by Fatty's own achievements. Fatty walked away, slightly stunned. She was only losing weight so that she wouldn't be, well, fat. She hadn't anticipated that others would be impacted by her doing so.

So, Fatty reached her goal. Looking back on pictures, I realize now just how thin she was. I'm not sure if she realized it though. I'm not sure if everyone's own self-image is as skewed, but I don't think Fatty will ever see herself as she truly is. Whether it be fat or thin.

And I'd imagine you probably see where I'm going with Fatty's story.

Remember how Fatty fell in love? And got married? And lost all that weight? Well, then the opposite happened. Fatty fell OUT of love. Got DIVORCED. And gained a SHIT TON. She gained every... single... pound... back. And that horrifying three-digit number that starts with a two? It's back and snapping louder than ever.

After the divorce, Fatty moved back home with her folks... and her habits began to change. She stopped cooking and started eating out. A lot. She'd stop for candy and snacks on her way to work most days. Not because she was depressed, but because it made her happy to do so. Of course she said she was buying for the whole office, but even Fatty knew the bullshit for what it was.

And the re-gaining of the weight was unfairly faster than it ever came off in the first place.

Did Fatty notice? Of course she did.

Did Fatty care? Of course she did.

But she believed wholeheartedly that she could get "back on track" at any time of her choosing.

When Fatty saw the return of that three-digit number that starts with a two, she finally had to acknowledge that things had gotten completely out of hand. Still, even after facing the fact that Fatty was fat again, the habits that had formed over the last two years were hard to break. And she struggled.

She needed a good, swift kick to the face to finally make her take action. And it came from an unexpected source.

Remember Fatty's co-worker? Well, it was odd. As Fatty gained weight, so did her co-worker. People would murmur about it, about how sad it was that this middle-aged divorcee had worked so hard to lose weight just to put it all back on again. But Fatty stayed silent. She was a person in a glass house.

Then Fatty came to work one day to find an envelope from said co-worker. She opened it with a smile, thinking it a thank you note for her recent help. Fatty was wrong. What she found instead was a brochure. For Food Addiction Anonymous.

Enough said. Point taken. Check fucking mate.

And thus Fatty's SECOND weight loss journey began.

Stay tuned.

Archives. (No, it's an actual post.) (Well, kind of.)

For most of you, it's already May 1st. For me, I've got another 47 minutes.

I got to thinking a little bit ago (where a little bit ago = 23 minutes) (I counted) about how here I had let another month go by without posting. And maybe, if I really tried hard enough, I could hurry and squeeze a post in so that at least April wouldn't be forever missing from my archives.

This then got me thinking about archive lists. If you've been paying attention, you know that the appearance of my blog changes, well, once in a while. (Where "once in a while" = EVERY FUCKING DAY.) My own archive list has moved from sidebar... to it's very own page... and back to my sidebar. Because I can never made a decision about the importance of such a list.

(42 minutes)

Let's be honest. No one ever clicks on the archives. For most, the sidebar archive list is a badge of honor. See that? See how long I've been bloggin?g! Add in a few "neeners" just for kicks. (And apparently I think most people are snobs.)

Except in my case. (Naturally.) (Dude, I'm not a snob.)

(38 minutes)

No, I've decided to display the archives in my sidebar solely for appearances. Because without it? My blog would be sorely lopsided. No, I'm not kidding. This is me at my most freakish. (You thought you'd seen the worst, hadn't you? Trust me peeps, you ain't seen nothin' yet.)

(33 minutes)

(30 minutes) (We had  a bug incident, but it's been taken care of.)

(And I know what you're thinking, since when do I take care of bugs in 3 minutes time? I don't. I'm with a friend who is manly enough to take care of the monstrous and disgusting creatures in a way that I'll never be able to. His 3-minute matter-of-fact bug expediting would have taken me a day and a half. Plus recovery time.)

(28 minutes)

It's a rare thing for me to click on someone's archive list. This has happened only once or twice when I became so infatuated that I thought I just have to go to the beginning and thus the archive list came into play. I can't remember any of the blogs with which this happened, so obviously the infatuation never lasted long. (This also happened a couple of times when I'd stumble across a blogger with so much effing drama in their life that I wondered what they wrote about before the shit storm.)

(17 minutes) (I was distracted by a youtube video.) (My life is full of inconsequential distractions these days.)

So, I was torn. Do I hurry and post so that April 2012 isn't lost forever? Or do I let it pass and be comfortable in the fact that at least no one will click on April 2012 just to be confronted with one sad, lonely post that was only written to make a deadline?

This is the shit I worry about. And I still don't have an answer. All I can do is click the "publish" button (which mocks me every time I leave a post unfinished) (you'd be surprised just how many of these there are) and give you something, anything, to read.

And I'll tell myself that May will be different. May will be full of clever, interesting blog posts. May will be the month it all comes together.

(13 minutes)

(550 words in 34 minutes? Not bad. You'd think I'd be able to do this more than once a fucking month.)

Or I'll see you again on May 31st. One can never tell.

The end.

(6 minutes)

Itchy just talkin' about it. Part 1.

There is one big problem with my mansion. (Other than the fact that I can hear my neighbor breathing, that is.) Spiders. Of the Daddy Long Leg variety. Oh, sure, you can go ahead and tell me how harmless they are, how "helpful." You can tell me the sky is green and the grass is blue. SPIDERS ARE SCARY.

(As are ALL insects. No species is spared in my absolute hatred of all things creepy and crawly.)

When I first moved into my mansion, I told Neighbor John, "I'm so happy we're neighbors! YOU CAN KILL THE BUGS!" Not that I was expecting much; just the normal amount of critters that one might expect. And you know what John said? "Bugs? (Then indecipherable muttering and general sound-making as if I was an idiot for even suggesting such a thing.) We rarely see any bugs." Then his nose grew three feet long.

The first daddy long leg (DLL from the point forward) was chillin' by one of my electrical outlets. I kept an eye on him for a little while and when he was suddenly just... gone... I shrugged and went about my day. You see, I can't kill them. Even that terrifies me. I've seen my mom spray insects. The bug freaks out, my mom freaks out, I freak out. Everyone is shrieking and flailing about. It's not pretty.

People, I know it's not rational. I get that. Truly, I do. I realize the absolute stupidity in my way of thinking. But fear? Real, true fear? It's absurd and foolish and there's absolutely no reasoning with it.

That first DLL reappeared the next day, next to the same outlet. Chillin.' A couple hours later, gone again. Then there was the one in the corner below my window. And, later, one that was crawling across the door to my closet.

All of them (or maybe they are one in the same?) moseyed on within an hour or two. I'm fine with that! Again, COMPLETELY IRRATIONAL, but I'd rather I go on my merry way and they go on theirs. No harm, no foul. Just go. Please, please, just go.

A coupla days ago, I came home and discovered one loungin' in a corner of the room. He wasn't doing anything so I went about my business. I was even starting to think this whole let-them-live-in-peace attitude I'd recently adapted was a sign that the fear didn't have quite the stronghold on me it'd had in the past. I'm an adult. A (relatively) mature one. And I've survived a divorce. What's an itty bitty critter gonna do?

Then something happened and I realized I might not have come as far as I'd hoped.

I stopped by the mansion to change before heading out again. I sat down to pee (and quickly as I was in a hurry). From my perch I could see into the shower and, for crying out loud, another spider. I finished my business and stood, just watching.

I couldn't let it stay. This is my shower we're talking about. I REFUSE TO SHOWER WITH SPIDERS.

I'm embarrassed to admit what happened next.

I didn't know what to do. It was on the move. I had to act fast. Shockingly, I don't own bug spray. (WHY DON'T I OWN BUG SPRAY?!) I thought to grab a bottle of whatever bathroom cleaner was closest, but that would mean leaving the room and in my irrational fear-filled mind, that would have given the spider too good a chance to escape. The closest thing to me was a small bottle of water I keep handy for ironing.

I should have realized what sort of minimal impact this would have.

I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed until I was nearly out of water. That fucker, crippled though he may have been, fought the good fight. I realized I was probably torturing the poor thing, which was so not my intention. (Did you not read the paragraphs above in which I LIVE AND LET LIVE?)

I had to grab something stronger than water, something that would clue said spider in on the fact that he wasn't just CAUGHT IN A RAIN STORM, something that would finally put us both out of our misery. While he was down, temporarily, for the count, I dashed into the closet and grabbed... windex.

Effing glass cleaner.

I don't know why. I guess I just figured it'd have toxic chemicals that SURELY would kill an itsy bitsy spider. But, no. I just kept torturing the poor bastard.

At this point, a solid ten minutes have passed. Doesn't sound like much, I know, but in real spider-killing time? An. E. Ternity.

Finally, finally, it was down. If it wasn't dead at this point, it was only a matter of moments. My skin was crawling. My scalp was tingling. I felt itchy all over. I was certain his whole extended arachnid family was going to come crawling through the walls in a scene straight from Arachnophobia to attack me. I probably wouldn't have blamed them.

I turned the shower on and let the water run for several minutes. I was so tense. My shoulders were aching; I was on the verge on tears.

I wanted, more than anything, to feel some sort of accomplishment. I had, after all, killed a spider. For what may have been the first time ever in my life. I should have felt proud. No, it hadn't been at all graceful and I was sure that when the time came I'd be taken to task for my inhumane treatment of another of His creatures. But I had done it. I had killed a bug. The very thing that haunts my nightmares and sometimes even prevents me from living my life. But I didn't feel proud. I felt horrible. Awful.

I didn't know whom I felt worse for: the spider or me. Because at that moment I felt certain I would have to move. The spiders and I would not coexist. If they wouldn't leave, then I would have to.

To be continued...

And I hope you never need them.

You didn't think I was kidding, did you? I bought the tattoos once. I had to see what "his and hers" tattoos looked like. The package only contained one tattoo (assholes) and it was of a green vine that I think was meant to circle an upper arm. Or maybe it was supposed to circle something else entirely. Anyway, it certainly didn't heighten any of my sensations. And I'll never get that fifty cents back.

Here to stay. Question mark.

I was crazy about The Sims when it first came out. I think I played, really played, for all of two weeks. Then I found the cheat for unlimited amounts of money and spent the rest of my time building and decorating houses. (Months and months later, I'd play For Real, but then it was all about getting my sim to "woohoo" with everyone she came into contact with. She was a total slut. Even after she got married and had kids, she was still humping everything in sight.) (Not sure what that says about me.) Now I wonder if blogging has become my present day Sims game. Because I've spent the whole of February (minus too many nights going out and holy shit, peeps, I am broke) playing with the appearance of this place. (And, as you can see, it looks worse than ever.) I spent one night writing a real, live post, but then I got all crazy about not publishing the damn thing until the ole blog was dressed in its Sunday best (I haven't been to church in too long to remember; I don't think that has anything to do with anything, but.) which is why it has not yet seen the light of day. My mom told me a couple weeks ago that if I had a life I'd stop focusing so much on inconsequential minutia. Then I thought, maybe I'm just done blogging. Maybe I've run my course. Maybe I don't have anything worth saying. (Did I ever?) Maybe no one wants to hear about the bars and late nights and "peewee" condom dispensers (for the little things in life) in the ladies room of said bars. (And I use the term "ladies" loosely.) But after much soul searching and enough Bud light to sink the Costa Concordia (not funny yet?), I've decided that I'm not done. I think I'm gonna stay a while. Also? I'm not a big fan of Bud light.