I am doing major construction of the blog. And when I say major, I mean major.

I’m just getting started, here, folks.

PHEAR ME!

:-p

Troy was supposed to be rebound guy, mainly because his name was “Troy.”

Karen found herself, however, thinking about him in that school girl way she knew was a one way ticket to Head Over Heals, Population Crazy Woman.

Troy fought dirty. Her daughter adored him, absolutely and completely. This played right into her insecurities of not having a man around the house. When she booted her worthless husband out, she didn’t expect him to abandon his own child, but he did. Troy however, though her daughter was more fun than all of his hobbies combined. Troy did not watch TV, instead, he played Barbie sparkle pony.

Troy’s negatives was his intensity. He was either all in or all out. His idea of relaxation consisted of biking down trails better left to mountain goats and climbing rocks with some “safety” line that didn’t look safe for an anorexic ballerina, much less his man-frame. Troy was an alpha but he had long hair, which for some reason bugged her to no end. Troy thought her friends’ politics were stupid and said so right to their faces. Troy could not cook. Troy’s tolerance for pretentious crap was zero.

In bed, Troy thought nothing of releasing his inner caveman. Grabbing a fist full of her hair was natural to him as kissing. He wasn’t content to be inside of her, her always pulled her as close to him as possible, as if he wanted to fuse their bodies by pressure and strokes.

Her brain usually shut off and she had trouble turning it back on afterwards. She loved every minute of it.

What really got her going, Karen realized one day, was that he never called her a pet name. Never once did he call her Baby, Honey, Sweetheart, or any other endearment. She asked him about it.

“I love to hear my name roll off your lips in a moment of passion,” he said, “so I assumed you like the same.”

Troy loved to kiss her neck. He was simultaneously teasing and demanding when he did so.

One day, after a five-hour marathon of sex and napping, she told him to stop screwing around and move in.

He told her to get dressed. When they did so, and went outside, his truck was already there, packed with his stuff.

Over the years(!) since I started this blog, I’ve come to the conclusion that writing about writing is a bit pretentious unless handled with care.

About the only thing of value I find anymore is a check-in for my blog harem (tee hee). My current work in progress is this. What’s next is that.

Why is that? I’ve wondered why those posts are popular, when others are not.

My theory: it’s because of action. I’m talking about things I did, or things I am just about to do.

So what am I doing?

I’m writing. I’ve gotten this contract under control (finally!) and have spent the entire weekend writing in a novel called Death By Lingerie. It’s a Lexus Toulouse murder mystery, and it’s shaping up to be a dozy. Poor Lexus gets in trouble. She gets in a lot of trouble. And to find herself again she has to go to places she isn’t supposed to go to. Do things that she never should do.

Never has crazy been so much fun to write! It’s science fiction just the way I want it.

Damn, I love being a novelist.

I’ve been meaning to change the blog style again. Every time I come to the blog it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. I surf themes and troll styles, but the dark tone draws me in and I forget about it.

Memory is a strange thing.

Sometimes it’s the smell. Tangy, visceral and very uninvited. That’s not the worst, though.

Other times, it’s the table. It’s round and has metal legs with a dark green top. I am sure it was stylish back then, but the rest of the memories find this one rather silly. That is, until I see round kitchen table with metal legs. One time, I found myself staring at one. Hypnotized by a table. Oh how foolish I felt when my girlfriend touched my arm and asked me if I was okay.

I wonder what happened to that girl? Did she think I was a bit odd? Does she have her own kitchen table with metal legs that she stares at?

I hope not.

Other times it’s the sock. That stupid white sock.

The first thing, and I mean the very first thing, I did when I moved into my own apartment, alone and by myself, was to buy little white sports socks. I mixed water with cornstarch and heated the concoction until it has some thickness to it. Then I added red food dye. With a spoon I dribbled some on the sock on my right foot. I splashed some around the kitchen.

Then I stood there and stared at the sock, and surprisingly felt nothing much at all. What was I thinking? I don’t know. I really don’t. I rather think it was my lame attempt at controlling the memory, but truth be told, I had already mastered that long before then. I thought at the time that my detachment was a betrayal to my inner most self. That’s what I thought when I threw the socks away and cleaned up the kitchen.

Now I am not so sure.

The sounds, of course, are the worse. Worse than the little white sock with the red spot by far. The sounds are distinctive as they are evil. They have a terrible truth to it all, a blend of metallic malevolence that I wish defied description.

But I could, if I wanted to, paint a vivid picture. The words would be easy but like anything terrible that holds truth, getting them out gives them life.

I wonder, sometimes, if I was on to something buying those socks. I wonder what would have happened if I put a round table with metal legs in the kitchen and then put the red dot on the sock and then closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I bet the smell would come back, followed by the sounds. All of them at once, instead of the random serialization I have floating up there aimlessly.

I’ve been meaning to change the blog style again. Every time I come to the blog it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. I surf themes and troll styles, but the dark tone draws me in and I forget about it.

The migraine, that terrible shadow that makes you believe your body is at war with itself. The migraine literally feels as if your brain is punishing the rest of your head for transgressions unknown despite your pleas for forgiveness. The migraine takes you on a trip to Pity Town, Population You, only half way there, you get car sick.