Elayne Griffith's Blog, page 7

ALL THE BOOKS ALL FREE!

Promotional weekend: all my books are free Sat-Mon on Amazon Kindle :) 

SO many to choose from!

Sapphire (Dark Fantasy Adventure)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Following Amur (Wildly Spiritual Adventure)

Twisted Bedtime Stories For Adults – My Cartoon Diary – Cupid’s Guide to Stupid Hearts

Modern vampires vs modern women

 

I’ll admit it, I’m addicted to the V – at the moment it’s the Vampire Diaries and True Blood, but most definitely NOT Twilight (F@#% Bella—worst female role model ever). First I want to talk about why we (females mainly) are so into this sparkly, bloody nonsense. 

Two reasons: romantic drama and sexy abs. 

Guilty pleasure to the T…shirt that comes off at least every other episode.

Even as I watch Stefan (a murderous, bi-polar, drug addict), and Damon (a murderous, narcissistic, asshole) proclaim their literally undying obsession/love over Elena (a better-than-Bella human chick that still has a seriously pathetic “nurse” complex), I catch myself being both compelled and repelled by this story and these characters and all stories like it.

When does guilty-pleasure escapism start to drip into our own lives? Do we watch these shows because we can relate to the romantic drama, the heart ache, and psychological issues of these totally neurotic supernatural characters, or do we watch it because it’s like a car crash, or some sort of freak show like Honey BooBoo? If we DO relate, however, then do we relate because we’re actually emulating what we see or read throughout our pop culture?

 

That’s my issue with these novels/shows; this paradigm of romantically needy, manipulating, self-absorbed, even dangerous examples of love and relationships. It’s not just reflecting our own society, it’s helping to create it. If all we ever see or hear or read about is the needy-pathetic-”must save him”-doormat-but still kicks ass-chick (a weird dichotomy of both independence but dependence) and the dangerous-emotionally distant-abusive-sexy god-man that “needs saving” then that’s what we know. That’s what we think we’re supposed to be, and supposed to want. 

Think about it. How much drama and heartache has stemmed from either your emotionally needy nature, or your desire to “save” some guy with “issues,” or else from his emotional retardation, distance, or desire to control you? Most of us have been there, and hopefully most of us have learned from it. Drama begets drama, because it’s an addiction. See a pattern to your love life? Always the “victim?” Lots of crying, or yelling, or stress involved most of the time? Look at the TV screen, then look in the mirror. It pretty much boils down to self esteem and self respect. If that’s lacking, your love life will be rife with drama. 

If I met a real life guy like ANY of these dream-boat psychotic vamp-hunks, I’d run in the other direction, as should you. Guys with “issues” (or girls) usually leads to drama-town.

So I guess I watch it for the sexy abs, and the pleasure of rolling my eyes at all the drama an immortal being that could do ANYthing (like cure cancer, invent amazing technology, create a better world, or—if they were a psychopath to begin with—destroy the entire world) instead obsess about relationships, partying, and every mundane little thing we mortals obsess about. Somehow I doubt an immortal being, because they still do possess their “humanity” apparently, would give a shit about an immature, man-crazy, little girl who hasn’t achieved anything in life but a high school diploma.

Right.

We’ve all become addicts. We watch these shows, read these books, live these dramas, because we watch these shows, read these books, live….you get the idea.

So, what if teens/men/women were subjected to more examples of healthy, non-neurotic love? What if we quit the D(rama) and decided to create a different story? Would we shout, “Boring!” or would we shout that because that’s our addiction speaking?

Anyway, whether anyone reads this or not, or agrees with it or not, I’ve got some abs to get back to staring at ;)

 

 

 

We are…

We are particles of stars, standing in shafts of sunlight, afraid of our own shadows…

When you meet a true fan

 

As a 76 yr. old lady, I didn’t think this woman would even like my story, Following Amur, considering that its humor is kind of crass and dark, that there are drug references throughout, and it’s kind of “woo-woo”….but lo-n-behold…she LOVED it!

I’m no “big name” author or anything. I can buy gas with my book sales so far, but as a fledgling author I feel pretty good about that. THIS, however, was better than winning the lottery. 

She read my book, then the next day came up to me and exclaimed, “Your writing is fantastic! You’re going to be famous, I know it. I just absolutely love your style and humor.” Then she pressed a check into my hand with an amount of money I wasn’t expecting at all and said, “I believe in what you’re doing. Keep writing.”

 

I nearly burst into tears.

 

To have someone, a stranger, enjoy and believe in your creative endeavors so much is beyond joy. My life’s purpose has been validated! Lol :D So, YES, I will keep writing and doing what I love, and perhaps one day I will be able to not only buy more than just gas, but also help make major positive change in the world.

 

If you want to help me save the last 300 Siberian Tigers in the wild (and 10,000 tigers in the world) then follow Amur into the wilderness, leave a review, tell your friends, and little by little we can make a difference :)

 

Click here for: FOLLOWING AMUR

 

 

 

 

Read this book – save a tiger!

 

I love tigers, but there are only about 10,000 left in the world. I wanted to try and make a difference, to help in some way, so I decided to use my writing talent. I wrote a story (a quirky, wild, humorous, spiritual adventure) with a tiger in it of course ;) Each month I’ll donate 20% of the profits from the sales of this book to various tiger conservation societies (as long as it’s $12+ otherwise I’ll just roll it over into the next month). 

So spread the word! Tell your friends, family, and family cat! Together we can make positive change, little by little. 

 

 

My Cartoon Diary – Raw From the Heart

Free on Kindle Saturday and Sunday! My Cartoon Diary Volume 1

 

When I was 14, I started a diary, a cartoon-diary, documenting all the tribulations and woes of being a teenager (and through my 20′s) which mainly included boys. When I first began drawing them I never imagined sharing my neurotic, silly little cartoons with the world. But now, after 16 years, here they are: over 100 pages—straight from the heart to the paper—of my personal journey through the hilarity, irony, and growth from love and relationships. Life is short and love is blind, might as well laugh at it! 

Excerpt 1

 

 

 

 

Excerpt 2

Excerpt 3

 

 

My Cartoon Diary – Raw From the Heart – Volume 1

When I was 14, I started a diary, a cartoon-diary, documenting all the tribulations and woes of being a teenager (all the way through my 20′s) which mainly included boys. When I first began drawing them I never imagined sharing my neurotic, silly little cartoons with the world. But now, after 16 years, I decided to finally publish over 100 pages—straight from the heart to the paper—of my personal journey through the hilarity, irony, and growth from love and relationships. Life is short and love is blind, might as well laugh at it!

Here is an excerpt from Volume 1 which will include my High School years.

Volume 2 will be the college years to the present.

I did my best to extract the illustrations from old lined paper (that were mostly drawn during class) for better legibility.

Buy this book & save a tiger!

Do you love tigers? Do you want their beauty to be respected and preserved for the future? So do I!

So I did what I do best—where I feel I have voice—I wrote a book. A book dedicated to tigers and helping to protect their future. Every month I will donate 20% of profits from the sales of this book (even if it’s only $5) to various tiger conservation programs. Who knows, maybe it’ll keep growing and I’ll be able to donate $100, $500, $1000! Every penny, and every caring hand, helps.

You can follow the donations on my blog or twitter @elaynegriffith

Following Amur, now only weeks away from publication, is a satirical-spiritual-adventure about: 

EXCERPT

(Unedited)

CHAPTER ONE

I never wear my socks during sex. It makes me feel used and trashy, like a night of strawberry schnapps with a high school jock. Though at this point, I’d take a vapid set of pecs over the masculine void in my love life. I must admit I have never been in a romantic relationship, at least not in a princess-in-a-tower kind of way. After years of empty schnapps bottles, I finally realized that I was actually the dragon. Now I tended to go about relationships in a more jaded secretarial kind of way.

I see you have plastic lop-sided balls hanging from your truck?—roast him with fire—Next!

Not many applicants were lining up around the block. It’s a little hard to love someone when love turned on you long ago. It’s difficult to have hope when as a little girl no one ever came to your tea party, not even your toys. My failed imagination and relationships aside, the most terrible secret I keep is a piano. I haven’t played the piano since I was sixteen. I was a virtuoso, a rising star, and now at thirty-two I work a dead-end mall job. Silently. Invisibly. But that was all before I came face to face with a little old man and an eight hundred pound Siberian tiger.

The day that fateful knock came to my door, a coworker of mine had been recommending that I go to yoga. She vowed that stretching her hamstrings like mozzarella sticks had completely changed her life. Since stretching mozzarella across my table at Denny’s was always a favorite pastime of mine, I figured I’d buy this fad a drink. I went out and bought everything that looked remotely related to yoga, including what turned out to be a dog toy.

“Now release your tail bone to the floor,” said our instructor. “Let the energy flow from the crown of your head out your feet. Let that stress, those negative energies just wash away.”

I glanced at the clock in hopes of mentally manipulating Einstein’s theory of relativity. However, his theory held true: when impatient for time to speed up, time slows down.

“Now push your hands into the floor. Keep those heels high for downward facing dog, or Adho Mukha Svanasana, and reach those sit bones high!”

As my trendy ass rose up towards the halogen light, and my hands became rooted to the expensive Buddha mat, I imagined the smiling Buddha image saying, “Someone just made a pretty penny off your desperate need for connection. Namaste, foo’!”

“Okay, class, sit in a comfortable seated position, hands in mudra, close your eyes, and breathe. Let the flow of your breath be your guide. Follow it like the tide of the ocean and let your thoughts drift away.”

I cleared my mind of thought, making enough room for the thought of a double latte macchiato. I cleared it again and wondered if I’d have enough on my next paycheck to pay my insurance bill. I furrowed my brow in frustration determined to stop thinking even if it meant sitting through the next class. I focused on my breath again, like the tide, like the ocean, like fish in the ocean, like toilet seats and beer cans in the ocean. I pursed my lips. Breathe, focus, just be, like seaweed floating in shafting sunlight, floating, just floating so peacefully.

“Thank you, everyone. You may open your eyes.”

I opened my eyes and met hers. She smiled at me.

“Namaste,” concluded our yoga instructor.

“You were seaweed?” Ivy said over the phone as I watered my dying plants.

It was ironic that my best friend’s name was Ivy since, I swear, for the life of me I cannot keep anything alive but cacti and plastic plants; so, I buy everything but, fating the poor things to a slow agonizing form of Japanese water torture. “You know, meditation. It’s supposed to open your inner eye—”

“Your inner what?”

“Eye.”

“Oh God. You’ve turned into a new-age floozy. I’ve lost you.”

I rolled my eyes at her accusation and watered my potted stick. I think it used to be an Orchid. The flower’s dainty petals had long ago swooned, wilted, and melodramatically fallen to the floor in an Oscar winning performance.

“Is Bleb still alive?” Ivy asked.

Bleb was my goldfish. I glanced over at his bowl. He was floating peacefully upside down.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”

“You have the weirdest pets.”

I laughed and nodded. It was true. Bleb always looked dead because he had a dysfunctional swim bladder that made him swim upside down. I found the name Bleb after falling into one of my late night Wikipedia black holes: “a bleb is an irregular bulge in the plasma membrane of a cell.” Seemed like a good name for an irregular fish.

I blamed my parents for the oddball gene. The night I’d been conceived was after they’d dressed up in lingerie to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Why they thought to name me after the wild-red-haired-maid, Columbia, will forever mystify me. I was the complete opposite of wild and red-headed, but I guess they were drunk.

Ivy had been talking the entire time I was reminiscing.

“How about 9 o’clock, Tuesday?” I heard her say when I tuned back in. “We can recite some hail Mary’s at O’Malley’s. Maybe some nice priest will buy you a drink.”

I snorted. “Even if he does, I’m not getting down on my knees.”

Ivy laughed and dropped the phone.

“But sounds like a plan,” I said when she picked it back up. “Oh hey, I gotta go. Someone’s at the door. I’ll talk to you later.”

We hung up, and I gave my wilting plants a wilting look then went to answer the door. I opened it to find Pete, my discrepant neighbor.

“I heard it this time. You were playing that music. It was too loud!”

“Pete, I wasn’t playing any music.”

Peter Fritzwalski was a middle-aged man who lived in the apartment below me. As far as I knew he never had any visitors or ever went out, except for his daily delusional escapades to my door. I felt it was my duty to play along since it was probably the only highlight of his day. His graying lanky hair looked as if it was actually sprouting from his knit cap, which I assumed had melded to his skull since he never took it off. He wore the same patched up black tights, the same wool sweater whether it was warm or cool out, but oddly enough it was his leather ballet shoes that he kept impeccably spotless. He would go out of his way to keep them unmarred, once even climbing over the railing of my second story floor, and inching along its edge, in order to avoid a shallow pool of water. Everyday it was the same routine, though sometimes the subjects changed. Last time it was my nonexistent parrot that had escaped from its cage, flew through his window, and inexplicably stole his last cupcake.

“But I heard it,” he said, his wide blue eyes accusing me of the audible crime. “It was Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.”

“I told you, I don’t listen to classical music. Now go home, Pete.”

“Well, then you shouldn’t play it so loud if you don’t listen to it.”

“Go home, Pete.”

I shut the door and heard him stand there a few minutes before he gracefully tiptoed away. I decided I would try that inner-lightenment stuff again before I had dinner. I threw a pillow on the floor and tried to sit still, but in a matter of minutes my foot started falling asleep. I shifted to lazy-cross-legged, closed my eyes, and tried to become the seaweed. As before, my mind raced with worries and thoughts, just being was harder than opening a can of tuna with a butter knife; I should know. You’ll try anything when the electric can opener dies on your last meal for the week. Why was I thinking about tuna?

“Float, float, no thought, just breathe, seaweed, float.” I repeated this mantra a few times and, remarkably, started to feel more relaxed. I was the seaweed, I was just floating, no worries, no thoughts, no doorbells. Doorbells? I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock. It had been nearly fifteen minutes already! I smiled at my accomplishment—take that Einstein—but quickly became annoyed when the doorbell rang again. With a sigh, I got up to answer, thinking of how best to get rid of Pete this time. I was not prepared for what greeted me. There, standing with hands cupped in front of him, was a little bald monk adorned in orange robes. He smiled. My eyebrow shot up, a habit of mine whenever I find a monk standing at my door. We stared at each other. He blinked, which was an amazing feat since his eyes were almost totally obscured by drooping folds of skin.

I licked my lips, forgot I had on cherry lip balm, made a disgusted face, and said, “Can I help you?”

The little old monk continued to smile, nodded his head, and gestured at the opening.

“Oh,” I stammered, “Oh, no, I can’t let you in, but if you’re looking for someone maybe I could help.”

He just looked up at me, or sort of rotated his head since there were hardly eyes to look at, and smiled in silence. I glanced around and thrummed my fingers on the door.

“Well, I need to go. Sorry I couldn’t help you. Try the main office.”

Both of my eyebrows rose as I closed the door on the strange old man. I turned around then paused for a minute. I did a little mental ballet with my facial expressions, then turned back around and opened the door. He was still standing there. I stared at him then closed the door again. My eyes fixated on the doorknob for a few minutes then I slowly reached out my hand, and opened it once more. The orange monk was still standing there, smiling patiently, and squinting up at me.

“Are your hinges working?” he said.

Taken aback by his sudden communication, I wasn’t sure what to say. I opened my mouth, but he spoke first.

“May I come in, or did someone already answer your ad?”

“My ad?” I blinked a few times in rapid succession.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Your ad for a roommate.”

I nearly tore the door from its well-oiled hinges. “Oh, that ad,” I said as if it had been obvious all along. “Of course, of course, that’s why you’re here. Why else would a monk be standing at my door?”

I hesitated, then just out of amusement of the situation I said, “Sure, come in.”

There’s a Tiger on Your Couch! (Fundraiser for my book & wild tigers)

Help me achieve my dreams and save tigers! I’ve taken the leap and started an Indiegogo campaign to help fund the editing and marketing of Following Amur – yikes!

And if I can get it from under the inevitable Amazon slush-pile with just a little help, then ultimately I can donate to wildlife conservation. So please, every penny counts. Help make a difference in my life, and I will help make a difference in the world :-)

Check out the campaign and all its awesome perks here: http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/there-s-a-tiger-on-your-couch/x/1806459

I NEVER WEAR MY SOCKS DURING SEX

 ––– (Indiegogo campaign & chapter one of Following Amur) –––

I am launching the Indiegogo fundraiser for my 2nd book, Following Amur, in the next week(ish)! I’m so nervous/excited because it will be a much bigger step in my writing dreams/career goals :) With the funds raised I will have it professionally edited and marketed, make an awesome book trailer, donate to wildlife conservation, and well – you’ll see! Stay tuned for the launch and (of course) silly video ;) And here’s the 1st chapter of the book (unedited).

CHAPTER ONE

I never wear my socks during sex. It makes me feel like a white-trash prom queen after a night of strawberry schnapps. On the other hand, I have never been in a romantic relationship, at least not in a Disney princess kind of way. After years of empty schnapps bottles, I finally realized Aladdin would always be a diamond in the rough reality of life. Now I tended to go about relationships in a more jaded secretarial kind of way.

I see you have plastic lop-sided balls hanging from your truck? Next!

My failed relationships aside, the biggest and most terrible secret I keep is a piano. I haven’t played the piano since I was sixteen. I was a virtuoso, a rising star, and now at thirty-two I work a dead-end mall job. Silently. Invisibly. But that was all before I came face to face with a little old man and an eight hundred pound Siberian tiger.

The day that fateful knock came to my door, a coworker of mine had been recommending that I go to yoga. She vowed that stretching her hamstrings like mozzarella sticks had completely changed her life. Since stretching mozzarella sticks across my table at Denny’s was always a favorite pastime of mine, I figured I’d buy this fad a drink. I went out and bought everything that looked remotely related to yoga, including what turned out to be a dog toy.

“Now release your tail bone to the floor. Let the energy flow from the crown of your head out your feet. Let that stress, those negative energies just wash away, just release.”

I glanced at the clock in hopes of mentally manipulating Einstein’s theory of relativity. However, his theory held true: when impatient for time to speed up, time slows down.

“Now push your hands into the floor. Keep those heels high for downward facing dog, or Adho Mukha Svanasana, and reach those sit bones high!”

Downward facing dog? Wasn’t that better reserved for the bedroom?

“Okay, class, sit in a comfortable seated position, hands in mudra, close your eyes, and breathe. Let the flow of your breath be your guide. Follow it like the tide of the ocean and let your thoughts drift away.”

I cleared my mind of thought, making enough room for the thought of a double latte macchiato. I cleared it again and wondered if I’d have enough on my next paycheck to pay my insurance bill. I furrowed my brow in frustration determined to stop thinking even if it meant sitting through the next class. I focused on my breath again, like the tide, like the ocean, like fish in the ocean, like toilet seats and beer cans in the ocean. I pursed my lips. Breathe, focus, just be, like seaweed floating in shafting sunlight, floating, just floating so peacefully.

“Thank you, everyone. You may open your eyes.”

I opened my eyes and met hers. She smiled at me.

“Namaste,” concluded our yoga instructor.

 

—                                               —                                                           —

 

“You were seaweed?” Ivy said over the phone as I watered my dying plants.

It was ironic that my best friend’s name was Ivy since, I swear, for the life of me I cannot keep anything alive but cacti and plastic plants; so, I buy everything but, fating the poor things to a slow agonizing form of Japanese water torture. “You know, meditation. It’s supposed to open your inner eye—”

“Your inner what?”

“Eye.”

“Oh God. You’ve turned into a new-age floozy. I’ve lost you.”

I rolled my eyes at her accusation and watered my potted stick. I think it used to be an Orchid. The flower’s dainty petals had long ago swooned, wilted, and melodramatically fallen to the floor in an Oscar winning performance.

“Is Bleb still alive?” Ivy asked.

Bleb was my goldfish. I glanced over at his bowl. He was floating peacefully upside down.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think so.”

“You have the weirdest pets.”

I laughed and nodded. It was true. Bleb always looked dead because he had a dysfunctional swim bladder that made him swam upside down. I found the name Bleb after falling into one of my late night Wikipedia black holes: “a bleb is an irregular bulge in the plasma membrane of a cell.” Seemed like a good name for an irregular fish.

I blamed my parents for the oddball gene. The night I’d been conceived was after they’d dressed up in lingerie to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Why they thought to name me after the wild-red-haired-maid, Columbia, will forever mystify me. I was none of those things, but I guess they were drunk.

Ivy had been talking the entire time I was reminiscing. “How about 9 o’clock, Tuesday?” I heard her say when I tuned back in. “We can recite some hail Mary’s at O’Malley’s. Maybe some nice priest will buy you a drink.”

I snorted. “Even if he does, I’m not getting down on my knees.”

Ivy laughed and dropped the phone.

“But sounds like a plan,” I said when she picked it back up. “Oh hey, I gotta go. Someone’s at the door. I’ll talk to you later. Okay, bye.”

We hung up, and I gave my wilting plants a wilting look then went to answer the door. I opened it to find Pete, my discrepant neighbor.

“I heard it this time. You were playing that music. It was too loud!”

“Pete, I wasn’t playing any music.”

Peter Fritzwalski was a middle-aged man who lived in the apartment below me. As far as I knew he never had any visitors or ever went out, except for his daily delusional escapades to my door. I felt it was my duty to play along since it was probably the only highlight of his day. His graying lanky hair looked as if it was actually sprouting from his knit cap, which I assumed had melded to his skull since he never took it off. He wore the same patched up black tights, the same wool sweater whether it was warm or cool out, but oddly enough it was his leather ballet shoes that he kept impeccably spotless. He would go out of his way to keep them unmarred, once even climbing over the railing of my second story floor, and inching along its edge, in order to avoid a shallow puddle of water. Everyday it was the same routine, though sometimes the subjects changed. Last time it was my nonexistent parrot that had escaped from its cage, flew through his window, and inexplicably stole his last cupcake.

“But I heard it,” he said, his wide blue eyes accusing me of the audible crime. “It was Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.”

“I told you, I don’t listen to classical music. Now go home, Pete.”

“Well, then you shouldn’t play it so loud if you don’t listen to it.”

“Go home, Pete.”

I shut the door and heard him stand there a few minutes before he gracefully tiptoed away. I decided I would try that inner-lightenment stuff again before I had dinner. I threw a pillow on the floor and tried to sit still but in a matter of minutes my foot started falling asleep. I shifted to lazy-cross-legged, closed my eyes, and tried to become the seaweed. As before, my mind raced with worries and thoughts, just being was harder than opening a can of tuna with your teeth; I should know. You’ll try anything when the electric can opener dies on your last meal for the week. Why was I thinking about tuna?

“Float, float, no thought, just breathe, seaweed, float.” I repeated this mantra a few times and, remarkably, started to feel more relaxed. I was the seaweed, I was just floating, no worries, no thoughts, no doorbells. Doorbells? I opened my eyes and glanced at the clock. It had been nearly fifteen minutes already! I smiled at my accomplishment—take that Einstein—but quickly became annoyed when the doorbell rang again. With a sigh, I got up to answer, thinking of how best to get rid of Pete this time. I was not prepared for what greeted me. There, standing with hands cupped in front of him, was a little bald monk adorned in orange robes. He smiled. My eyebrow shot up, a habit of mine whenever I find a monk standing at my door. We stared at each other. He blinked, which was an amazing feat since his eyes were almost totally obscured by drooping folds of skin.

I licked my lips, forgot I had on cherry lip balm, made a disgusted face, and said, “Can I help you?”

The little old monk continued to smile, nodded his head, and gestured at the opening.

“Oh,” I stammered, “Oh, no, I can’t let you in, but if you’re looking for someone maybe I could help.”

He just looked up at me, or sort of rotated his head since there were hardly eyes to look at, and smiled in silence. I glanced around and thrummed my fingers on the door.

“Mmmm, well, I need to go. Sorry I couldn’t help you. Try the main office.”

Both of my eyebrows rose as I closed the door on the strange old man. I turned around then paused for a minute. I did a little mental ballet with my facial expressions, then turned back around and opened the door. He was still standing there. I stared at him then closed the door again. My eyes fixated on the doorknob for a few minutes then I slowly reached out my hand, and opened it once more. The orange monk was still standing there, smiling patiently, and squinting up at me.

“Are your hinges working?” he said.

Taken aback by his sudden communication, I wasn’t sure what to say. I opened my mouth, but he spoke first.

“May I come in, or did someone already answer your ad?”

“My ad?” I blinked a few times in rapid succession.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Your ad for a roommate.”

I nearly tore the door from its well-oiled hinges. “Oh, that ad,” I said as if it had been obvious all along. “Of course, of course, that’s why you’re here. Why else would a monk be standing at my door?”

I hesitated, then just out of amusement of the situation I said, “Sure, come in.”