Renee Miller's Blog, page 30

Life Lesson #214: Running Away Never Solves your Problems

By Joy Papadopoulos









My name is
Joy Papadopoulos. Actually, my given name is Efrosyni, which I fucking love to
pieces. Dumbest. Name. Ever. No one can pronounce or spell it and when I say
it, they sort of blink and smile like an ass. It’s pronounced ef-ro-SEE-nee, if
you’re curious. Apparently it’s Greek for “joy and mirth.” How fucking
ridiculous considering I’m completely lacking in both things. My big brother
couldn’t pronounce it, so my mother just started calling me Joy to make life
simple for him. My parents were all about making life simple for my brother. Wait
till you see where that got them.



Ironically,
our last name means “son of the priest” or some shit like that. It’s ironic
considering my father is not even close to priestly. Tony Papadopoulos is a
cutthroat businessman, and if you cross him, well you won’t have much time to
ponder the consequences.


My story
isn’t “officially” written yet. Renee’s still pissing around with her outline,
thinking about me while she finishes up with that pussy marine she stuck up on
a mountain. She’s also trying to rewrite a bunch of shit she lost because she’s
too stupid to save her work now and then. Basic rule of writing: Save your shit
before you walk away from the computer. You’d think she’d have learned by now.
I’m writing her blog post for her because she has all these good intentions of
updating it regularly. Yeah, you all know how that’s going to turn out, right?
Girl has the attention span of a two year old hopped up on  cherry Kool-Aid and crack.



Anyway, more
about me. My father and I have an unusual relationship. It’s not terrible. I
know he loves me, but the problem is he’s just so fucking old fashioned. Well
that and he makes me kill people. More on that later.




Tony
Papadopoulos moved to America when he was six. His father, the late and much
quoted (to my utter agony) Niko Papadopoulos arrived in New York with nothing. His
wife had been murdered, and all they had was each other. Well, that’s the story
my father gives everyone. I checked it out when I was a teenager. It’s a bunch
of bullshit. My grandfather came from a rich family. A family that sent him off
to America with a fat bank account to avoid tarnishing the family name after
Niko caught his wife, my grandmother, in bed with his cousin Stavros. He killed
them both, and tried to kill my uncle Dimitri, who was suspected to be
the illegitimate child of Niko’s brother. Dimitri died a couple of years ago.
He’s the one that told me the truth, and before he died he was able to meet
with my father. You know, I suspect that’s probably why he died… The point is my
grandfather was a rich nobody when he got to America. By the time my father was
sixteen old, just ten short years, Niko had built the foundations for one of
the largest crime families to never be discovered by the feds. I’d say that’s
pretty fucking impressive.



Another
irony is my father’s “motto,” which is that you never run away from a fight.
Considering his father, the man he idolized, ran from everything, it’s a
strange motto to have.



My dad and
I got along great for most of my life. Even after my mother left and I found
out my dad had been banging a woman with huge fake tits and a tattoo of a
monkey on her ass on the side, we managed to stay close. He doted on me, called
me his princess, bought me everything I wanted—until he realized he had the
perfect assassin under his roof for eighteen years. I didn’t mind killing
people. Actually, I kind of liked the challenge of stalking my prey. I loved
that every dipshit crime boss in the country assumed I was a man. Idiots. What
I didn’t like was my father’s need to keep me as close to him as possible. I
think he worried I might come for him if I was allowed to think for myself.
Paranoid freak.



I started
looking for my own place, but dear old Dad would have none of that shit. He arranged
a marriage for me…with his second in command. First off, an arranged marriage?
Who even does that anymore? Second, as if I’d ever marry that arrogant,
illiterate prick. He’s so hooked on steroids and himself I’m sure the honeymoon
would be gloriously underwhelming.



I said no.
My father said it was for the good of the family. I said no again. He said if I
didn’t marry the guy, I was not allowed to move out. At first I was like, “Oh
no, you didn’t!” But I realized very fast that, oh yes, he certainly did. A
woman had no place living by herself. It was dangerous out there in the big bad
world.



Dangerous.
Yeah, makes total sense. He sent me to kill people for him and he’s worried getting
my own place would attract the psychos? Fucksakes. I was the psycho.


So I ran
away, and my father was livid. He searched relentlessly. I swear I felt him
breathing down my neck at every shithole I stopped in during my first weeks on
the run. Oh, I could afford a nice place. Hell, I had a ton of cash on me—taken
from Dad’s safe an hour before I ran—but he’d expect his princess to go for the
luxury she was accustomed to. Instead I sucked up my horror and OCD, and I slept
with cockroaches, mystery stains and, in one lovely establishment, a rat I
named Giles.




Once the
heat was off, I snuck back to get my dog, and I’ve been on the run since. I was
doing pretty well at evading him too, until my asshole brother revealed to the
fucking world (okay, mostly just the crime world) just who was the “muscle”
behind the mighty Papadopoulos family. Then the attempts on my life started. True,
if I’d just went back to my dad, I’d have been safe and hidden until he could
throttle my brother and convince folks I was not an assassin, but that would be
quitting and admitting he was right about running away. I’m no quitter, and I
refuse to be wrong.



So I moved,
and moved again, and finally, I lost the amateur hit men, my besotted canceled fiancé,
and my father’s buffoons. Turns out the key to cutting the apron strings when
the wearer of said apron is a master at finding people who don’t want to be
found, is to hide in plain sight. It took me a while to figure that out, but
when I learn something, I become the master. I lived thirty minutes from my
father’s estate for six months, snuck in a few times to top up my cash and to
pick up clothes I decided I couldn’t live without, and he had no fucking clue.



So I was
doing okay. I don’t like people in general, so friends weren’t an issue. I’m a
lone wolf. Friends require too much energy, especially the women. Well, I
managed to avoid everyone except this fucknut Amy from my job, but we’re not
talking about her today. I wanted to just cut her throat at first, but Renee’s trying
to make me relatable and says she won’t
allow that, but I always get what I want in the end.



Anyway, I
came home from work one day, just wanting to sit and chill with Bubba Nugget,
my slobbery and loyal English mastiff, and Harvey, the stray ball of fluffy feline
fury that refused to leave my apartment once he’d snuck past my ankles and conquered
his tiny kingdom. I’d wanted to talk to Bubba about moving again, because that
fucknut from my job was really annoying and I’d almost run out of patience with
her bullshit, and instead I found a bigass man sitting on my couch. Not bigass
fat, but bigass tall and muscular and reeking of beefcake deliciousness. His
name? Turns out he’s also a bigass moron. He called himself the “Collector.” You
see, he collects people for other people. Why? Various reasons. Some of them
are political contracts, some are mob related, others are for reasons he wouldn’t
elaborate on. I called him a hit man, he laughed. You know, he never did say if
he’d killed anyone. I think he has. He’s got that “Don’t fuck with me or I’ll
kill you.” look about him.



Not that I’m
in any position to judge such things, but at least I took out lowlifes, he just
took out whoever had the biggest price on their head. He won’t tell me who sent
him. He says he doesn’t have a name, but swears it’s not my father. Apparently
whoever wants to collect me plans to dangle me in front of my dad for some kind
of trade off. I do know one thing though; the person or people behind my
collection have no fucking clue about my family. A trade? Pffft. They’d put a
bullet in my head before they’d deal with anyone.



The
Collector thinks I underestimate my value. I think I want to nail him every
which way but right, but I don’t say this out loud. He’s kind of serious and
professional, and I doubt that’s the way to charm such a fellow anyway. I think
a thorough fuck would really improve his temperament. I promised myself I’d get
him drunk  and take advantage of him, but
I’m not allowed to tell you about that either.



Where was I?
Oh yes, the deal and whatnot. So I’m a little pissed that my guard dog is like,
not guarding me in the least, and the cat is…well Harvey isn’t exactly loyal. I
didn’t expect him to be. He’s a cat after all. Little bastard pissed in my new Manolo’s
once because I forgot to feed him. He’s so fat, two days of fasting did him
good. I’m a softy for animals though. They’re so much better than humans.



Tangent
again. Sorry. I got over my anger with Bubba Nugget because the Collector
showed me the hole in his pants that proved my dog tried to be vicious. There
it was, right below his fine ass—the Collector’s not Bubba’s. Bubba’s ass is
all balls and fart. Not fine at all. The Collector had done his homework though
and brought the one thing that could win the slobbery fool’s undying devotion:
Golden Oreos. I’d been betrayed for subpar cookies.



After we
established that Bubba Nugget would have to travel with us until I could sneak
him back home or something (I was NOT putting him in a kennel), he realized
just how difficult an item I would be to keep. You see, we weren’t even 24
hours into the charade when he got this call from some government agency. They
wanted to hire him to collect me, and they definitely don’t want me to go back
to my family. They didn’t say why they wanted me. If they thought I’d turn on
my family to stay out of jail or something, they’re dumber than they look. If
they thought I’d work for them…now that proposal has its merits. Not that I
could consider such a thing anyway. I mean, now that the word was out that I’d…shit.
Look, you’ll have to wait until Renee writes the story to see what they wanted with
me. She’s got that marked as top secret.



Anyway the
government asshats had no idea about this other shithead—the first contract
given on my head—so they were all like “What’s the problem dude? Just bring her
to such and such a place at such and such a time on this date and you will be
compensated handsomely.” Okay, I don’t know what they said exactly, but I
imagined they’d say something like that. The feds have no idea that the world does not revolve around them and not everyone cares about helping them catch the bad guys. The Collector was like, “How did you
get this number?” He paused as I was sure they explained their cunning ways,
and he was all like, “I am not looking for work currently. I’m on another
assignment. I will contact you soon,” because this is a conflict for him, being
that the last people he wants contacting him are probably the feds. True, he’d
done government jobs before, but it’d been through someone else. No direct
link.



The
Collector thought that my brother was behind the whole shebang. I tried to tell
him that although Mickey was a class-A twat, he just was not that smart. Wait
till you see what happened to that fool. My brother, not the Collector.



Up to this
point, my abductor has no idea that I’m an assassin. I really want to tell him,
but then there’s the whole trust issue. If he knows I can kill him in his
sleep, he won’t let me snuggle up next to him under the pretence of not letting
me get away anymore. I really like snuggling with him. Plus, he’d probably
assume I meant I was a hit man…woman…person. Fucking PC bullshit. The point is
that a hit man is small time. I’m not small time. I take out major names, not
some anonymous dope who can’t pay for his shit or some five and dime boss who’s
trespassed on Papadopoulos territory. The Collector has no idea that I can
escape his “clutches” any time I want. He thinks I’m just a spoiled brat, and I’m
okay with that. Until I figure out what the fuck is going on, I need him to
believe I’m harmless and helpless. Also, he’s really good at hiding. The man
has remained anonymous since he left wherever it is he came from twenty years
before. I’d say that’s as expert as you get at hiding.



The point
of this ramble? Jesus, impatient much? I’m getting to it. I should have stood
up to my father, or at least just moved the hell out and cut my canceled fiancé’s
throat. End of story. But no, I ran away and what happened? My problems
multiplied. True, it brought the Collector to me, but what good is a hot piece
of man candy if I can’t stop running from my life long enough to taste it?
Exactly. Running away from your problems only creates more problems. Don’t worry
though. I’ll get out of this.



Or I’ll die
trying.

Awards Coming Out My Ass: I'm a Lucky Girl

My new blogger friend, Adam,
gave me the honor of the Kreativ Blogger Award. Also, Veronica Sicoe honored me with the Versatile Blogger award. Usually, I ignore these, but these
are fun, and two honors in one day cannot be ignored. Also, I get to write
about myself, which we all know I just love to do. So the rules to accepting
these awards include answering some questions about yourself and nominating
other blogs for the awards.



What I’ve done is combined the two into: Answering 10
questions about myself, and also sharing 10 interesting facts: 5 about me, 5
about my writing.



I’ve also nominated seven blogs (well 8, but two are by
one person), that I think you will all be better off for checking out, but I’m
waiving the rules for my nominees. Although I’d love it if you all answered the
questions, you don’t have to do so, nor do you have to nominate seven more. I
just wanted to share your awesomeness with everyone.



Now, to my questions:



What's your favorite
song?



Oy, I do not have a favorite song. I love them all. I listen to different genres and artists depending on my mood and what I'm working on. I think
the song Closer by Nine Inch Nails is vile and disgusting, but I always play it
when I write. Why is that? It’s the “feel” of the song I suppose…or maybe I
just write vile and disgusting stuff.



What's your favorite
dessert?



If it has chocolate and whipped cream, I’m lost. Nothing
with cherries though. Cherries taste like sweet waxy awful.



What ticks you off?



There are so many things that tick me off. Let’s begin with
the simple things: dog shit, shredded toilet paper, lost things, touching my
feet, touching me with your feet, and chewing with your mouth open. The more
logical things include people who can’t handle someone disagreeing with them,
hate, disrespect, whining, and laziness. Also, certain commercials can ruin my entire mood.



What do you do when
you're upset?



I’m very verbal. I rant, swear, throw things, and sometimes
I cry. Then I’m more mad because I ruined my perfectly good tirade with snot
and tears. Sometimes I write to calm myself down, but more often, I eat
something that’s sure to knock a few years off my life…like bacon-wrapped
anything.



Which is your
favorite pet?



Bandit. The dead one.



Which do you prefer,
black or white?



Grey



What is your biggest
fear?



Biggest fear? Sigh. If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,
and then this won’t be fun anymore…for you.



What is your attitude
mostly?



I’m a nice girl who always smiles and has nice things to say
about everyone. Anyone who tells you differently will be dealt with
accordingly. I’m honest and my attitude is usually not agressive or hostile unless you make it so.



What is perfection?


A fictional concept.




What is your guilty
pleasure?



HBO. Seriously. Oh, and Ebay.



Ten Random Facts



Personal Facts:



I have smoked pot. It made me vomit and I couldn’t sleep for
a really long time. It did not make me hungry or relaxed. Not really looking to repeat the experience.



I was married once, and I don’t care to repeat that
experience either.



Although no one’s diagnosed me officially, I do believe I
have panic attacks in new environments and in large crowds. Meeting people
scares the shit out of me. It’s fleeting and I get over it, but I’ve actually stressed
so much, I’ve thrown up and given myself severe migraines prior to such things.



I am hopelessly in love with Tyrion Lannister.
Jon Snow makes me pretty happy too.



Comedy is my favorite form of escapism, next to vampires.



Writing Facts


You all know I write in my horrible, dirty, mole-infested garage,
but what you don’t know is that I quite like it, and I’m not sure I want an
office.




I’ve tried to be very organized when I write, but my best writing, and my highest productivity occurs in
chaos.



All of my characters are based on at least one person I
know, usually a combination of people. Which one are you? I’ll never tell.



Short stories help me to work out problems with bigger
pieces, and sometimes help me work off stress. I’ve written well over 100 short
stories, but many of them I’ve deleted or they’re handwritten in a notebook I’ve
placed somewhere I’ve forgotten about and can’t seem to find. Only about 60 or
so are actually saved in a file.



Every one of my novels contains at least one sex scene. Because
sex is good. So…yeah.



Now for the 7 bloggers I think you should check out:



Mike Keyton always posts some fascinating tidbit that I get to add to my fact
files. Also, he’s funny, so there’s that.


Maria Zannini is a very busy woman offline, and she still manages to keep her
author blog, as well as a very useful blog everyone (including
non-writers/readers) will love, called Getting Back to Basics.




Gwendolyn McIntyre’s Pages for Small Wages are never dull. Check this blog
regularly for something funny, insightful and interesting.



When Paul’s not insanely busy, he doles out some priceless bits of wisdom over
at Dark and Secret Writes.



Wendy Swore shares book reviews and writing experience from the perspective of a full time farmer and mother five as the Goddess of the Corn.



Katrina Monroe isn’t so great at updating, because I keep making her write shit for me, but when she does, you don’t
want to miss it. She’s good for a giggle and a kick in the ass.



Last, an author on my “much loved” list, Kate Quinn blogs about writing, publishing,
her books, and history—my favorite things.



There. Aren't you glad I won? You've never been quite so entertained, am I right?

Live like You Were Dying: The Only Way to Succeed in Life

Holy shit, where is our ranty, bitchy,
sarcastic Renee and who is this nauseating woman who’s taken her place talking
about “you can do it” and uplifting crap like that?






Fear not,
the Renee you’ve become accustomed to is still here. She’s just thinking out
loud…again. Yes, this will be somewhat motivational and positive (at least that’s
the goal), but please do stick around anyway, because I still have profanity
and margaritas.


Also, there
will be rants to come. I promise. Actually, I’d intended to rant today, but
then this song came on the radio when I was at my parents’ house this morning to let their dog
out and “sit” with her for a minute. My mom’s a little neurotic, and she
worried poor little Lucy will get lonely if someone isn’t there every few hours
to talk to her and shit. Anyway, this morning (because of recent personal
events) the song made me cry. Usually though, this song makes me smile. Why? Allow
me a bit of rambling.





Some of you
may not have the time to listen to the song, or you might be at work and can’t
blast it. So here’s the lyrics:






Live Like You Were Dying
Tim McGraw






He said I
was in my early forties,
With a lot
of life before me,



And a
moment came that stopped me on a dime.



I spent
most of the next days,



Looking at
the x-rays,



And talking
about the options, and talking about sweet time.



I asked him
when it sank in,



That this
might really be the real end,



How’s it
hit you when you get that kind of news?



Man what’d
you do?






(Chorus) And
he said: I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing,
 I went two point seven seconds on a bull named
Fu Man Chu.



 And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,



 And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying,



 And he said some day, I hope you get the
chance,



 To live like you were dying.






He said: I
was finally the husband,
That most
the time I wasn’t,



And I
became a friend a friend would like to have.



And all of
a sudden going fishing,



Wasn’t such
an imposition



And I went
three times that year I lost my Dad.



Well, I
finally read the good Book,



And I took
a good long hard look,



At what I'd
do if I could do it all again,



And then,






(Chorus)




Like
tomorrow was a gift,



And you got eternity,



To think about what you’d do with it.



And what did you do with it?



And what can I do with it?



And what would I do with it?






(Chorus)



That last
bit, “Like tomorrow was a gift and you got eternity to think about what you’d
do with it…” is the way I’ve viewed things for the past ten years or so. Sure,
sometimes it’s easy to fall into the “I wish” and “It’s not fair” mindset, and I
do that more often than I should, but most of the time, I look at life in terms
of what if once it’s all over, someone asks me “What did you do with it?” How
would I answer that question?



How would
you answer that question?



What does
this have to do with writing? Well, everything really. This is a tough
industry. I’ve said so many times, and I’ve bitched and moaned and cried about
how hard it is to achieve what I want. But, at the end of the day, I don’t
believe that there is any possibility that I’ll fail, because I’ve already
succeeded.
 



I’ve
thought about this a lot. When you work in manic mode like I do, you have some
pretty intense emotions from time to time, and sometimes I find myself in that
big cozy pit of despair thinking I’ve been a fool, and all that other
self-pitying nonsense that we like to wallow in occasionally. I begin thinking
about what I’ve done and what good it’s brought me, and then I think about this
song, and I’m out of that pit and feeling quite pleased with myself. Of course,
I should explain.






I’ve had
some interesting feedback on OFW. Most of it has been good, but I’ve also had a
few “friends” tell me it’s a failure waiting to happen. Sometimes it’s tempting
to believe that when I’m dealing with glitches and whatnot, which can I just
say, suck ass big time. Anyone wanting to start a website, be warned:
Technology is a bastard. It hates you and it will make you as miserable as it
can.



Anyway, I
was talking about OFW. I actually had a couple of rather hateful emails and private
messages on Goodreads because we took our group there and moved it to the site.
I’ve been told that it will never take off, it will never pay, and I’m a fool
for busting my ass for nothing. One person told me I was an arrogant bitch.
Another asked what did I think I had to offer writers that more experienced
(and established) authors could not? A few told me I’d ruin my chances of
publishing. Hmm. Okay. No, it doesn’t pay. It costs. It costs time, energy,
money, and sometimes brain cells and I’m pretty sure a part of my soul is
forever lost. It’s been largely thankless, and it is monstrous, and some days,
I’d like to throw in the towel and never hear the words “On Fiction Writing”
ever again.



But I love
it.



It’s
something that, ten years ago, hell even just five years ago, I’d never have
considered. I too would have said, “Who the fuck am I to run a website for
writers? I haven’t published shit, so what gives me the right to give my
opinion?” Today I say, “Who the fuck are you to say I can’t? Thanks for your
opinion, you giant jealous douche. I’ll file it where it belongs. At least I
tried to take what I wanted out of life.” If it doesn’t take off, if we decide
to shut the whole works down; it’s still not a failure. The minute we had one
member, I succeeded in what I wanted to do. The rest is just a bonus. I love
writing the articles, I love debating with other authors, I even love begging
for interviews (sort of), and I love it when I get feedback like this. This single blog post is enough for me
to feel as though I’ve succeeded, no matter what happens after this point.



I have like
ten manuscripts that are finished. Six or seven of those are polished and (in
my opinion) publishable. I have far more half-written manuscripts than I should.
Someone once kindly pointed out that if they weren’t published, then they were
a waste of time. To them I say, “And fuck you too, asshat.” Nothing is a waste
of time if you love doing it. I loved every second of that writing. If I don’t
find an agent, or I never publish traditionally as I want to do (not as I have to do, but as I choose to do at this point), I’m going
to be pissed, and I won’t pretend that the thought doesn’t bother me. I’m sure
there are many ranty blog posts in my future, mostly because I enjoy ranting.
But I will not see it as failure. I’ve succeeded already. I’ve written books, I’ve
written articles, and I’ve been paid for my writing. Actually, writing is my
full time job now. It pays the bills (most of the time) and “writer” is what the
government calls my job position. It’s not exactly what I wanted, but it’s
success nonetheless.



I used to
be a cautious person. I was careful what I said and who I said it to. I was
careful not to offend anyone, and I never went for anything that I thought
there was the tiniest change I might fail at. I never took risks. I settled for
what I thought I deserved, and not what I really wanted and needed. And I was
miserable.



When I
changed my thinking, and I took a “no holds barred” view on life, my confidence
went up, and my misery went down. It’s simple really. You don’t have to be all
crazy and jump out of a plane (who would jump from a perfectly good plane
anyway?) or go ride some beast of death, but you do owe it to yourself to do
what you know will make you happy; what makes you feel alive. Don’t be afraid of
failure.




Failure is living
life so cautiously that you never do anything.
Failure is
never feeling (good or bad) emotions so intense you think you might die or
explode.



Failure is
wishing for good things, but never actively going after them.



Failure is never
waking up long enough to make your dreams to come true.



Failure is
not taking a chance.






Failure is not a four letter word. Fear is.


If someone
asks you what you did with life, can you say you at least tried your best to
live like you were dying? If the answer is yes, then failure is impossible.






Lesson
over. I’ve saved the rant for another day. Stay tuned.

Dirty Truths

I’m done my
whining and bitching over the unfairness of life, and I’m good. Thank you all
for cheering me up and reading my depressing jaunt down “I hate life” lane. It
was a good break, and I needed it. Sometimes it’s good for the soul to wallow
in misery. No, I’m serious. It is. You see, when you drag yourself out of the
pit, you realize how lucky you are to have good shit waiting for you.


It also
helps you to accept a few dirty truths about life and fate and all that
nonsense. Here’s what I’ve learned. I hope this shit doesn’t only happen to me.





·        
If
there is a right way and a wrong way to do something, and the wrong way is
going to result in horror/death/catastrophe, you can bet that some jackass will
do things the wrong way, just to confirm that fact. It’s just a fact. Kind of
like how every time I utter the words “humans can’t possibly get stupider,”
someone proves me wrong. I’ve learned you can’t fight this. It’s better to use
the time you would have spent trying to avoid total devastation building
yourself a nice cozy bunker stocked with booze, canned goods, and porn.



·        
I’ve
learned that as soon as I clean the floors, an animal must piss or shit on
them. Same goes for the cat litter. The litter box must never be totally clean.
I suspect the world ends if this happens. I’m not sure. I just know if there
isn’t something shitting or pissing in this house every minute of the day, bad
things will happen.



·        
The
secret to life is not living without regret. It is to do things that are worth
regretting. No, I’m not talking about that one night stand you never told even
your best friend about because it was so…never mind. I’m talking risking your
heart on that person you knew was completely wrong for you because deep down
you know you’ll never feel that way about anyone ever again. Or like that night
you and your friends (all of you way underage) got drunk and went on a “tour”
in someone’s boyfriend’s truck with a bunch of people you vaguely knew, where you
got lost down the back roads twice, at least one person misplaced her bra, another
refused to wear a shirt because he was sticking it to the man, and another ended
up with poison ivy on their whatnots due to an unfortunate accident while
peeing in the woods. And you can’t recall laughing quite like that ever again.
Yeah, those regrets.



·        
I
cannot train anything. Not dogs, not cats, not kids, not husbands. I’m the
world’s worst teacher and I’m okay with that.



·        
There
is nothing good about feet.



·        
I
used to think that if I didn’t make eye contact with weirdos, they wouldn’t
talk to me. I was wrong about this. It doesn’t matter where I am, who I’m with,
or what I’m doing, the weirdest, most annoying fucknut in the place will track
me down and talk to me. Sometimes they even touch me. Once a woman who smelled
like urine and Cheetos hugged me and I thought I’d have to slit her throat. I
would like whoever put the whackjob magnet in my brain to die a horrible death, with
fire, and screaming and much pain.



·      
Sometimes
people tell me I’m unique, or original, but they’re wrong. I’m no different
than everyone else. My personality is just louder than theirs, so it’s hard not
to notice me. Try it. Then you’ll be unique too.



·        
I’m
100% certain of the quality of story I’m writing until I finish the outline and
actually begin to write. At this point, I’m 100% certain the story sucks and I
will never show it to another living soul. Until I type “THE END.” At this
point, I’m 50% certain it sucks, 50% certain it’s brilliant, and 100% certain
if I don’t show it to someone I will spontaneously combust.



·        
If
I mop the floor, someone will spill shit on it. If I clean the tub, someone
will go roll in mud and then take a bath. So why bother? If I dust, it will
come back, so again, why bother? I’m fighting an uphill battle with pet hair
and fleas and I’m kind of losing the will to continue the fight. Also, I hate
dishes and toilets, and why can’t we order takeout every night? The thing is, it’s
my house, my dirt, and my crap. If you are embarrassed about my poor
housewifery skills, you simply don’t have to visit. Actually, I’d prefer you
didn’t.



·        
I
swear a lot. I will never stop. Get used to it. If people would stop getting
offended over stupid shit like whether I call someone “hot” or “fucking hot,”
then we could have world peace, or something equally as nice and fuzzy.



·        
People
who like crowds of strangers are not normal. Stay away from them, they’re not
trustworthy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.



·        
Life
is not a race people, and it’s not a competition. Sure right now we’re all
concerned about who has the biggest house, the shiniest car and the fattest
bank account. We like to get the prize for the best this or that, and turn our
noses up at the have-nots, but consider this: We all end up in the same place,
without any of that shit at the end. Who’s the winner now?



·        
I
know I will die while trying to put the fitted sheet on the fucking bed. Either
my heart will just give out due to my utter hopelessness at this task which I
must do for four beds every damn week, or my brain will explode out of sheer
frustration.





·        
When
I grow up, I’m going to be famous. Don’t you tell me I’m not. It’s the truth. You’ll
see.

The Shocking Truth About Life

Today has been really long. Usually when I say this, I'm agonizing over trivial but still stressful shit that's getting me down, but today has truly been the longest day ever. I'm down. I'm depressed and this is not going to be a funny post. Sorry. It's time.



It's easy for us to get wrapped up in the moment. We become so focused on writing and publishing, or whatever career path it is we've chosen, that we can't see what's going on outside our bubble. We work, and work, and work until we're nearly spent. Then we push a little harder and we work some more. Those of us with ambition and drive don't know the meaning of the word "quit" and we refuse to utter the word "can't." That's a good thing.



But from time to time we fight that uphill battle toward our goals without looking around us. We don't see what we're doing to ourselves, and we don't realize how far we've come.



We don't pause long enough to appreciate ourselves and our hard work.



Then Life steps in and forces us to take a step back. How? The methods vary, but usually Life likes to hit you in the face with a very heavy, blunt object. You know, to make sure you get what it's telling you. This has been my week for such an event.



Here's what happened to me. Let's see if any of you recognize a pattern.



I've written around ten manuscripts and dozens of short stories in three years. I have worked since 2009 to go from knowing nothing about writing and publishing, to knowing and understanding enough to put it into a book, and to have clients pay me enough for my writing that I could actually make a living doing just that. In October we published the Writer's Companion, after several months of feverish editing and preparation. In January we launched OFW, after a year of feverish planning, anxiety and dread. In the past few months, I've spent no less than 12 hours a day online. I've written articles to keep the bills paid, written articles to keep the site going, written blog posts to keep up with my "platform" and marketed on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, etc. until I'm sure people are sick of me. I've emailed authors, publishers, agents, etc. for interviews, and begged friends for content. I've had more than a few weeks where I averaged about 4 hours of sleep or less per night, and I've managed to work on "my" writing for at least an hour each day. Does that even seem right? One hour of what I want to be doing and 12 hours of what I "have" to do? Who is this slave driver forcing me to do this? Oh...it's me.



Then I got sick. Sinus infection. I powered through. Then Kurt got sick and gave what he had to me. I almost died. (Okay, not literally, but it sure felt like it.) I powered through and it got worse. I went to the doctor, got loaded up on drugs and powered through. I refused to let a silly thing like a bacterial infection ruin the momentum I'd gained. I powered through. My mindset was: Must keep moving or I will fail.



I spent an embarrassing amount of time this past few months just sitting at my computer sobbing. Not working. Not typing. Just hands on the keyboard, sobbing. Each time that happened, I'd allow myself about ten minutes of solid ugly crying, then I'd sniff a snotty snort, wipe my eyes, and begin work. I kept going.



Must keep moving or I will fail.



Life decided I wasn't real great at seeing subtle hints so it dropkicked me with the most devastating news I've ever had to deal with. I won't get into particulars here because the wounds are still fresh and at this point, it's not something I want to share. Because I'm writing this post, obviously I owe it to you guys not to be completely cloak and dagger. So, I'll share that someone very important to me is very sick. Someone I can't imagine life without and I won't imagine life without unless I'm not given the option any more.



The thing is, I had to stop today. I had no other choice. And you know what? I stepped back and I said, "Shit. Look at what I've done. Look at what I've built. Why isn't this enough?"



You know what? This shit is not important at the end of the day. Yes, I want to publish. Yes, I want to make writing my career. And yes, yes, yes, I want people to read my books. But it's not worth killing myself. It's not worth missing those important moments in life with those important people who aren't always going to be there. Nothing is forever. That's the shitty thing about life.



Motivation and ambition are fantastic. I have lots of both. But sometimes, they get in the way of doing what's healthy both physically and emotionally.



So, now that I've had to take a step back, I've gained a bit of perspective. This is not the be-all and end-all of my world. I will keep plugging away and I won't quit. I will always write, whether I publish any of my books or not. It's in my blood and my soul sings when I'm creating, but enough of this working myself into the ground, and enough taking the things that really matter for granted.



When you find yourself sitting at your desk/table/whatever feeling like you want to cry rather than do another single thing, it's time. When the idea of getting out of bed depresses you before you've even started your day, it's time. When you realize that the people who mean the most to you get only an hour here and there of your full attention, it's time. When your brain can't process another kick in the face, it's time to take a break.



Life's too short. Even when you're trying to get published.

Things to Remember in a Survival Situation

My name is
Rayne Summers. I used to be a marine until the Agency drafted me into service.
What is the Agency? If I told you, I’d have to kill you. Besides, what I’m
about to share doesn’t relate to what the Agency is. My role with the Agency
taught me about survival. This is what we’ll focus on today.  And we need to do it fast, before Renee
finishes cleaning the toilets and finds out I’ve taken over her laptop. She’s a
bit of a tyrant when it comes to her “stuff.”



So, surviving
almost any situation requires that you understand two things: Human nature and
Murphy’s Law. God plays no part in survival. If God were so helpful, how did
you get into a life or death situation to begin with? Exactly. Faith in any form
will only get you so far when you’re being hunted, or when you’re starving and
someone lets the only chicken escape, then pisses in your water source. So
let’s begin today’s lesson.



Renee
recently dropped me on a mountain with a couple dozen people who I’d normally
rather cut my own throat than associate with. She’s got a weird sense of humor.
While on the mountain, I realized that if you learn and accept certain truths
about humanity and the ways of the universe, you improve your odds of survival.



First, you
are always surrounded by idiots. The more stress or unfamiliarity you add, the
dumber these idiots will get.




You put
someone in a situation that is outside of their normal experience and stupidity naturally
follows. People like to remain within their comfort zones, and when you shove
them out of that little space, they act like giant mentally-deficient monkeys
with a severe case of ADHD. Nothing you can do but duck when the shit flies.



Also, when
you put a group of people together for a long enough time, sex happens. Don’t
be the only one missing out.



It doesn’t
matter if you’re smelly, hairy and dirty, or if it happens in a clean, fluffy
bed or the hard, dirty ground, sex will eventually happen. Hell, I’ve seen many
a straight guy start flirting with his buddies when given adequate time without
female companionship. People, even those who prefer the life of a hermit, need
physical contact. You might think you wouldn’t care about sex if your plane
crashed and you were fighting just to survive the next minute, but I’m telling
you, sex will occupy your thoughts even more in that situation. That dirty,
nasty, smelly, bugs-in-your-ass sex will be the best you ever had too. Why?
Because you secretly believe your number’s up. When you think you’re going to
die, everything tastes just a little sweeter.



Which
reminds me, Bible thumping should be recognized as a mental illness, and
treated accordingly.



You cannot
pray a bear away, and eating a dead person will not send you to Hell. Now, not eating the dead guy because you are “above”
such savagery could cause you to suffer his condition. You see? Stop preaching
and get eating. I hear if you confess the sin later, your slate’s clean. Like a
redo.



And people
are pussies about bugs and shit. If it looks like a snake, moves like a snake,
it is a snake. But it tastes like chicken. As with dead people, when you’re in
a situation that leaves you few dinner options, take what you can get. Bugs,
snakes, rats—they all taste the same. Some might be more chewy or gamey than
others, but it’s food. Shut the fuck up.



Remember
that never is a long time. There are a lot of things we say we’d never do when
we’re sitting in the comfort of our nice house, with a fridge nearby and no
wild animals lurking in the shadows. That’s short-sighted, people. You can’t
know how you’d react until you’re in the situation. You might think you’re very
likable, but in reality, when the going gets tough, you become the most
annoying prick in the camp. You might think you could never eat a beetle or
drink your own urine, but you’ve never been starving or thirsty to the point of
death.  Never say never. It’ll bite you
in the ass.


That brings
me to another point. Human nature is unpredictable.




Just when
you think you’ve got it down, that you know someone entirely, they shit all
over your expectations. What’s worse, you’re the most unpredictable of the
bunch.



The
acceptance of the unpredictability of human nature will lead you to the
realization that assholes find a way. There is always one asshole in the party.
If you’re really unlucky, like me, you’ll get handful of assholes. Accept that
your life will not be easy as long as said assholes are still breathing.



Finally, probably
the most important thing to remember in a survival situation is that the level
of authority you assume directly correlates with the size of the target on your
back.


I hope you’ve
learned something today. I need to get out of here now. Renee’s throwing shit,
which means toilet cleaning is done. Before I go, can I ask you one favor?
Could you send some kind of rescue team to Kilimanjaro? Tell them to bring
guns. Thanks.

The Secret to Dealing with Assholes: A Guide by Jackson Murphy

I know many
of you (okay most of you) have no idea who Jack is, but he’s very much a part
of my personality. Actually, a lot of my characters have a little of me in
them. As it should be, right? Yes, even the baddies. So, today I let Jackson
Murphy write a post, and boy, he is one opinionated bastard. Enjoy.



My name is
Jackson Murphy, but my friends call me Jack. No, I didn’t say you could call me
Jack. Mr. Murphy will do just fine. Since 99 percent of the population is
either a dick or an asshole, odds are few of you would be worth my time anyway.
Don’t get your panties in a bunch, there’s nothing you can do about what you
are. Problem is all you dipshits out there tend to fuck everything up for those
of us who have a shot at having anything worthwhile in life. That’s why the 1
percent of us who aren’t jackoffs, need to know how to deal with your shit.





Today is
your lucky day. I’ve learned that the secret to dealing with assholes lies in
accepting a few truths about people in general. Once you accept them, remember
them, and then the idiots can’t screw you over because you’ll be ready for
their stupidity. If they do manage to mess up your shit, you’ve got one option.
Kill them.





Truth #1: There’s straight, gay and just plain greedy.





I think people
care way too much about who everyone else is fucking. The truth is, if you’re
getting decent sex, you won’t care who Joe Dick next door is doing. Problem
with that is in order to have decent sex you gotta know what you’re doing. Think
on that for a minute. I don’t give a rat’s ass who you’re nailing. Gays and
lesbians are fine people. I’m sure a few of them are even likable, but I’d
rather not find out. I got my own problems without worrying about my drinking
buddy eyeballing my asshole. Still, I have no problem with homosexuality. They
stay on their side of the fence, I stay on mine. No problems. Hell, if they’re
masochistic enough to want to get married, why shouldn’t we let them experience
the same hell we straight folks live in every day? My problem is with you
bisexual fucks. Greedy much? It doesn’t matter if you’re gay or straight, but
you’ve gotta pick a team; otherwise you’re just a greedy little bitch.





Truth #2: Women are good for fucking and cooking.






If they’re
not good at doing at least one of these things, then you’re asking for trouble
if you keep them around. Case in point: Jenny, my wife, stopped fucking me and
never cooked more than instant oatmeal. I kept her around and what happened? A
lot of dead people, that’s what happened.





Truth #3: People who own dogs that fit in their
purse and do nothing but yap should all be shot.





You can learn all you need to know about a person about the pets they keep. Actually, anyone who wastes their time on those smelly shit machines is borderline retarded. I don’t
think I need to back up that statement. It’s a fact. Deal with it.





Truth #4: The better you do, the more people
want what you’ve got.





The success
of a man directly correlates with the number of enemies he has. The number of
people you can trust drops for every dollar you earn. So, if you want to be
successful, you need to stop caring about other people. That gives you more time
to make money anyway. There are very few people in your life, male or female, friend
or family, who are actually useful. They’re dead weight. Get rid of them.





Truth #5: Women without mothers are the only
women worth your time.





Trust me on
this one. A mother-in-law will fuck you in every way possible. Then she’ll get herself
shot in your kitchen.




Truth #6: Women are a law unto themselves and
there is fuck all anyone can do about it.






Men
constantly underestimate women, and that’s what leaves you flat broke and
balding, alone in some cockroach infested hell. Come on, women screw each
other, and we think it’s hot. Would they get all wet if you gave your golf
buddy a hummer? I think not. They pitch a tantrum, we think it’s cute. A man
pitches a tantrum and we’re labeled “abusive.” They lose their shit and we are
pissing our pants trying to make things right. We lose our shit, they call the
cops. They can take half of what we’ve earned, and we still marry them. Who’s
stupid now? Exactly. Women are always looking at the big picture, waiting for
the opportunity to fuck whoever is in the way of them getting what they want. And
I’m not talking about fucking in a good way either.





Truth #7: With the right motivation, humans are
capable of miracles.





I’ve risen
from the dead, so I know this is true. How much more miraculous can a guy get?
Motivation is the most powerful tool we have at our disposal, but too many of
us don’t bother with it. What do you want? Why do you want it? What will you do
to get it? If you don’t have motivation, you don’t have shit and you never
will.





I’d thank
Renee for letting me post as a guest on her blog, but I’m doing her the favor,
so she can kiss my ass. She’s lucky to know a man like Jackson Murphy, and she
knows it. Some day she might get smart and listen to my advice, or perhaps she
already has.

Lucky 7

I don’t usually participate in this kind of thing, but I like this one,
and it’s quite writerly, so here goes. I’ve been tagged four times by KateQuinn, Katrina Monroe
, Rita Webb and Veronica Sicoe in a cool little tagging game between blogging writers—The Lucky 7 Meme.
I think after four tags, it’s time I participated properly. So, the rules are
as follows:





Go to page
7 or 77 of your current MS/WIP, or go to line 7 (for short fiction). Copy down
the next 7 lines, sentences or paragraphs and post them as they are written. Tag 7
authors and let them know.




The purpose
is to share our current projects, share some good luck, and get a little closer to each other. You
know, know each other better, and as Veronica said, reveal ourselves in an embarrassing bit of
stripping, like Amish women taking off their bonnets on a Sunday.



I’ve
checked both page 7 and page 77 of my several WIPs, and decided page 7 of The
Legend of Jackson Murphy will entertain you all sufficiently.



Jack
would get a hold of that rat-bastard Chihuahua and his fat whore owner. He’d
shove the yappy fucker right down her throat. Seriously, the miserable animal shits
pebbles, how hard is it to scrape them up? She probably couldn’t bend over far
enough to reach it.



Cursing
and wiping his sole repeatedly, he walked to the building and up the steps.
Pushing through the door, Jack’s gaze fell on his wedding band and the fat
lady’s Chihuahua slipped from his mind. He could run it by Ray, but Ray always
sided with Jenny. She could be sleeping with Ray for all he knew. Entering the
elevator the thought made him laugh out loud.



Jenny
with Ray? Absurd. Definitely trading down in Jenny’s case. Jack may not be George
Clooney, but he was a damn sight better than Ray. Jack rated an almost-Brad
Pitt-level of attractive. Ray, at barely five and a half feet tall, thick
glasses and thinning hair—with a personality to match his good looks—didn’t
come close. He repeated himself every time he spoke and his allergies kept him
inside all day during the spring and fall. Jenny would choose better company
than Ray. Besides, who would choose Woody Allen over an almost Brad Pitt?



The
elevator stopped on the fifth floor and Jack stepped out shaking his head. If
she’d found someone else, it might give him leverage in a divorce. If she
wanted to be free to be with her new lover, she might let him have what he
wanted.



Not likely,
Jack.



He
strode down the hall toward his office located near the end, across from an old
guy who Jack swore couldn’t leave his apartment unless he’d shit his pants. The
shit-man’s door opened, hinges creaking over a shuffling of slippered feet.
Jack rushed forward. The “C” hung crooked on his door, and he straightened it
before opening.



Inside
the apartment, Ray sat at his desk. He’d dimmed the lights and closed the pale
yellow drapes so the sunlight streaming through the patio doors behind him
couldn’t reflect on his computer screen. That gave him migraines.



There you have it. Jackson Murphy. Now
to the writers I’m tagging:



GwendolynMcIntyre
Paul Mitton

Wendy Swore

Chris Rothe

LynetteSofras

S.M.Carriére

LaurenStone  




There are
many more writers that I want to tag, but I know that to tag will stress them
out and you know, we don’t want to stress the writers. So, I’ll leave you guys
alone. You know who you are (Mike, Maria,
Carlos…)








Readers: Mostly I think you’ll enjoy these writers and
their blogs. Writers: If you’d
rather not participate or tag anyone else, that’s okay. I declare you’ll still
have good writing luck if you post your page 7 or 77 or just share the link to
your latest blog post in the comments. As Veronica said, it’s a great way for
everyone to peek out of our own worlds and into each other’s.

Amazon the Knock-Off Artist?

After reading this article, which reports the many duplicate book titles available on Amazon, I paused for a moment, a bit confused as to the books that sparked this little controversy. I agree, one shouldn’t use already existing titles to dupe readers into buying your book over another, but should Amazon be blamed for allowing it to occur? Or should that and culpability be shifted to the shoulders that created duplicate titles?

Amazon removed the books discussed in this article from their site, but the books still exist. Correction, the books are still listed on Amazon’s site as of the time I’m publishing this blog post, but they are tagged as “Currently unavailable.” Now to me, Fifty Shades of Grey and Thirty-Five Shades of Grey are different books. If I were reader looking for the Twilight knockoff, the difference between the similar titles would be obvious to me. One has fifty shades and a man’s tie on the cover, the other has thirty-five and a naked woman touching her whatnots. Very different. Of course, if I flipped the book over, it appears that the story of Twilight’s knock off got, well, knocked off. Karma, perhaps?

Amazon has said it rejects or removes thousands of books to improve customer service and avoid confusion, but why stop at titles? How about we go on and have them sort through the submissions for self-published books and remove any book that is similar in plot and characterization as well? Blurbs? Shit, yeah. If they’re the same, or confusingly similar to another book already published by the Big Six, let’s remove them. We. Can’t. Confuse. The. Readers.

Get real. There are plenty of books with identical titles: it’s not a crime. True, it confuses us when we look for a certain book, but isn’t that what some of these guys hope to do? As a reader, I look at more than a title or a blurb. I look at the first pages, and if I'm unable to do that, I don't buy it. Period. No confusion there.

Similar titles, as long as there is no trademark infringement, are perfectly legal. And let me tell you, it is very difficult to find a court that will side with an author when challenging titles. So many terms, phrases, etc. are generic, that it’s impossible to trademark most titles.

Speaking of Twilight (yes, just a couple of paragraphs ago), let’s look at how many duplicate titles have come along since it hit shelves. Wow, a lot. Sure the wording varies, but there are several wannabe bestsellers trying to break the bank on that cash cow. But wait, what about before Meyer published? Oh, look. Meg Cabot published a little novel called Twilight in 2005, as part of a series called “The Mediator.” It did pretty well, as all Cabot’s books seem to do. Did her panties get bunched because Meyer came along three years later and used her title? No. Because it’s not the same story. (Cabot’s series is way better) And there’s the part the made me pause. Why are we all antsy over copycat titles popping up over a book that was a copycat story to begin with?

 I know Amazon has done some skeezy things, and I know that scamming may not be something they consider outside of their ethics, but if an author wants to use a title that's been used, but not trademarked, they're within their right to do so. It's on us to trademark our titles if we don't want them used, not Amazon or any other publisher or bookseller. Come on guys, let's get a grip. I'm titling my next book, "Fifty Shades of Grey in Twilight by the New Moon: Under the Dome." How you like them apples?

Buddy: Satanic Bastard Cat

I'm not usually a superstitious person. Neurotic and obsessive about some things, sure, but superstitious? Not so much. My habit of triple checking the stove and other fire-causing items in the home before I leave or go to sleep isn't superstition. It's based on the fact that most fires start when you're away or sleeping. I just want to make sure I'm not increasing my odds. Okay? Totally logical. Perhaps I'm weird in that I refuse to write an ending for my novels before I write them, but that's also not superstition. It's based in fact. You see, every time I've outlined something and wrote the ending before I started writing the first draft, I never finish that story...or at least not to my satisfaction. That's solid evidence that writing the ending first is a bad idea for me.



With April having a Friday the 13th (tomorrow) I've been pondering superstitions and the luck (or lack of it) I've had recently, and I've found a common thread. Earlier this year (October-ish) we found this tiny black kitten outside our house. Wait, you've gotta see how cute he was:







He's helpless, the kids said. Look how cute he is, they cooed. So we let him in. A few people said later that they'd never take a black cat. In fact, when I called the Humane Society (Shh, don't tell the kids I even contemplated such a thing) they told me that he'd probably be put down because people rarely take a black cat. Why? Superstition. For fucksakes, I said. That's stupid.

Or is it?



It wasn't until that cat entered this house that I found things like this:

That is a hairball folks. On my wall, way up at the ceiling. How does that shit happen? I don't know, but it did. Seven feet up the wall, that cat hacked up that bad boy. Not bad luck? Well, not long after that the precious little bundle of joy was leaving me steaming brown coils of nasty all over the house. It wasn't until January that I realized the crawlspace was his personal litter heaven. I filled a grocery bag - A GROCERY BAG - with pooh from that little black bastard.



But I calmed down, and thought, well maybe he doesn't like Dill (my very well behaved older cat) going where he does his business. So I got another litter box. Well folks, if I don't scoop his nasties out as soon as he makes them, then he shits on my floor. So yeah, litter cleaning daily.



But I got over that. Then the incident with the vacuum occurred. I was minding my business, vacuuming up the litter he insists on kicking out of the COVERED litter box every time he uses it, and I sucked up a toy that was in the way. Hey, if it's on the floor, it goes to the beast. Well, the toy was too big for the vacuum to handle and it had a bit of a stroke. (Shhh...don't tell Kurt. It's a new vacuum...purchased after I wrecked the two we had.) So I tried to get the toy out. I had to tip it upside down and shake it to do so. After it dropped, I saw a shadow run at my legs. I stepped back, turned, and looked down, trying to avoid stepping on whatever it was.



Well it was that black bastard cat. And I fell over him and completely messed up my back. Yes, it's still messed up because I'm old now and I just don't heal the way I used to.



Bad luck? Perhaps.



But I thought he was so cute and lovable, he was worth it. Witness the demon at work:



Yeah, I dare you to touch the box. He lies in wait for us like this all the time, under beds, in cupboards, behind doors. The first fool that walks by gets scratched to shit.



In addition to these little mishaps, Buddy (that's the bastard's name) gave Dill mites, brought the damn cat fleas back into the house (now we have dog and cat fleas, wtf?), and he has scratched all the fucking walls to shit. Why? He chases shadows. If they're on the wall, he runs up the wall.



Oh yeah, and I go through 16 rolls of toilet paper a week. How is that possible? The little bastard shreds them to bits. No matter how high I put them, he manages to get at least half an econo pack each week. Not only is it annoying, but I have to clean it up.



Also he bullies Bear terribly. As if the dog isn't neurotic enough, now he's got demon cat making him even worse. He's chewed the hair right off his ass because of that cat. But how do I conveniently lose him when he causes this kind of happy?







Bad luck? I think so. Can't you see how he's mocking me?



Now, I just have to figure out how to put that bastard's satanic power to good use.